The Truth About Chasing Dreams

Doctor Who taught me to dream...then life taught me to let go

Happy Monday!

Doctor Who fans, sound off! We’re talking about the brilliance and inspiration of the show this week…along with a personal story about meeting David Tennant.

Charles Rodriguez

shared the vulnerable memory he writes about for you here with me a couple weeks ago. I told him that his honesty touched me very much, because I relate to the feeling of having my world turned upside down from a dream I had lived for since my earliest childhood dying. I have also been shamed into silence about my internal misgivings by the celebrated “never give up on your dreams” guru culture. So, I want to give a huge “Thank you!” to Charles for breaking the chains and bringing this important conversation to light.

I hope any of you struggling with a similar haunting internal death feel seen and accepted here. You define your own story, and that story is worthy even if it doesn’t fit into the current cultural narrative. Never forget that.

Cheers,

Ceylan Gunduz

(OBA Studio’s Newsletter editor-in-chief)

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Meeting David Tennant Changed My Life…But Not How I Expected

BBC Doctor Who opening title card

Once Upon a Time in 2005 . . .

I came into my childhood living room where my dad was watching some new show. Except, it wasn’t a new show, but the return of an old one from his childhood, he explained: Doctor Who. A somewhat-obscure sci-fi adventure series about a “Time Lord,” who just calls himself “the Doctor.” He travels through space and time in his T.A.R.D.I.S., a spaceship that looks like an old blue police box. He explores, gets into trouble, and solves problems.

My younger brother soon joined us. We could not understand why the Doctor, played at the time by the magnificent Christopher Eccleston, did not have a gun to solve the episode’s crisis. Instantly, we knew he and his TV show were different, unlike anything we had seen before. We were hooked.

Source: BBC | Christopher Eccleston as the ninth Doctor

The last glorious days of my youth, before the Recession and high school came along, were spent waiting for the weekend to arrive with the latest episodes of Doctor Who. We brothers were highly influenced by the show, as the series is more than just outrageous, campy, imaginative, and epic sci-fi adventures. The stories of the traveling Doctor and his companions are morality tales.

The series preaches non-violent resolutions; the horrors of war; the need for communication over destruction; the power of intelligence over brutality; accepting others despite their differences; the wickedness of hatred and selfishness; allowing for change and adaptability; to stand up and fight for good; and, in the end, to live a good life that lets you face death with pride. To me, a child entering his pre-teen years, these conversations were novel and sublime. They helped change my life and prepare me for the future. The Doctor is the kind of man I still want to be.

I will always adore Eccleston’s tenure as the Doctor, but the revived series entered a whole new dimension of significance when the next leading man soon arrived. The ability of the Doctor’s alien race to “regenerate” as the same being but with different looks and personality quirks allows the series a sneaky way of bringing in new talent. Thus entered the new face of the Doctor: David Tennant.

Tennant as the Doctor became me and my brother’s greatest childhood hero. He solidified Doctor Who as more than just a TV show but a piece of our hearts. His tenure helped shape our moral compasses, passions, senses of humor and adventure, and even dreams. In fact, I later copied Tennant’s acting to join the drama club and get on the theater stage in 10th grade, something I never believed I could do (which ultimately ended up saving my life in the hellscape of my high school).

David Tennant as the good Doctor

In short, Tennant’s era of Doctor Who forever changed me and my brother for the better. While the Doctor in general is arguably my favorite fictional character, Tennant’s portrayal is for sure the dearest to me.

Flash-Forward to 2019 . . .

I’m 24 during a difficult but influential year.

My precious cat, Jazz, died on St. Patrick’s Day. I saw Avengers: Endgame on opening day–potentially the greatest theatrical experience I’ve ever had. I discovered The Last of Us video game and Rocky, both of which profoundly changed me. My university graduation was behind me. I was writing the “scriptment” for my big space opera adventure drama, Cosmos, working as a writing tutor, and creating my first post-school short film with my good buddy and filmmaking partner.

Nobody knew what 2020 was going to bring, and the future looked bright. I had my dream to become the next great and glorious filmmaker: transforming me into the man I have wanted to be for so long. The final triumph over the darkness which destroyed those beautiful weekends of Doctor Who . . .

Dragon Con 2022 parade (Source: Steve Schaefer/steve.schaefer@ajc.com)

My older sister informed me of the impromptu chance for she, me, and my brother to go to Dragon Con in Atlanta, Georgia, where David Tennant was a featured guest. My brother and I could not believe our divine luck. Imagine! A chance to be in the same room as our greatest childhood hero! A chance to meet him! The possibility made me shake with anxiety and excitement. We could not pass up the opportunity.

Going to Dragon Con for the first time was an experience all in itself. But (after waiting an hour in a massive line to enter the panel hall) that panel with the David Tennant was everything my brother and I hoped for. As a public figure, an actor, and the freakin’ Doctor, he did not disappoint. A childhood dream came true.

Then, my brother, who is an even more dedicated fan of Doctor Who than I am, suggested we meet the man at one of his scheduled meet-and-greets. I was incredibly nervous at the idea, but so high on adrenaline that I said, “What the heck, why not?”

The Incident…

Before I continue, I must make perfectly clear that nobody did anything wrong in this incident remarkable only to me. I do not blame my siblings, Mr. Tennant, or myself for the miscommunication that led to my dissatisfaction, which led to the haunting moment that inspired this article. Yet, haunting the moment was, and so my meeting with the honorable man who was my greatest childhood hero turned out to be . . . well, read on.

My sister graciously paid for what we thought was a standard meet-and-greet with Tennant, where the guest sits at a table and visitors get to have a little conversation, perhaps get a merch item signed, and, often, a picture taken with them. I was mentally rehearsing what I would say to Tennant– to coolly and respectfully let him know what his work meant to me, and how much I was thankful for what his single role did for my life. Our scheduled time arrived, and we followed a line towards Tennant’s table. Or so I thought. I looked at our surroundings and had a weird feeling. There were squares of black curtains ahead of us, not meet-and-greet tables. I started seeing people walk out of this odd black box with photographs, but no signed Doctor Who memorabilia. The line also moved way too fast for brief conversations. I had an unhappy hunch that I was not going to get what I thought.

I was right. Apparently, we had accidentally purchased not spots in line for a meet-and-greet, but a photo opportunity. My brother, sister, and I were led into this black curtain box where Tennant was waiting in front of a neutrally toned background to take quick pictures with fans. I instantly disliked the very idea. I cannot imagine anyone enjoying being the main attraction in this situation, set up like a lady of the night in a back alley servicing fan after fan. I did not want to be a part of it at all.

I saw Tennant a few feet away from me, and butterflies rumbled in my stomach. Yet there was that lingering sense of disappointment over the context of our meeting. Swiftly (I refer to that “lady of the night” simile), my siblings and I were ushered to stand next to this giant–both literally and figuratively–and posed for a picture. I (admittedly somewhat obnoxiously) decided I was not going to walk away from this momentous moment, so I offered my hand to my childhood hero. He shook it, and I looked into this man’s eyes, to see that Mr. Tennant was already looking ahead to the next guest. The moment was over and I was instantly forgotten (though, again, I understand the situation and hold no ill will towards Mr. Tennant).

My siblings and I were ushered out of the tent to pick up our instant print photographs. They were over the moon. I was not. I couldn’t believe that this amazing moment had passed by like it meant absolutely nothing, solely due to a miscommunication. I still cannot fathom why such a meeting structure even exists–who could possibly want such a heartless thing? I was feeling ill, disappointed, and dazed. I did not know how to react or how to spin this unpleasantness into something positive.

The Fallout.

I told myself that this meeting with Tennant would not be our last. After all, one day I would be the next epic filmmaker. I would be making stories as majestic, affecting, and terrific as those that changed me in Doctor Who, and so many other tales I adored. This unhappy moment, like countless others that tortured me since I was a pre-teen, would fold into my legend, eventually inspiring stories for the next generation who would see a kindred spirit in me.

When I rose these ranks, I would be able to cast Tennant in one of my projects, where we would meet as equals. I would laugh and tell him about this awkward first meeting, and we would get a kick out of how the story changed with my success. My inevitable success. Not because I myself was awesome, but, naturally, all my misery and suffering and work would amount to something one day. This was the story I had always told myself to survive, and I had the conviction to make it true.

But, that afternoon in a busy section of Dragon Con, things were different. As I told myself, “That’s what will happen, because I am going to be something great one day,” this heavy voice that sounded a lot like me spoke in my head: 

Suddenly, Dragon Con seemed to slant. I felt like I was spinning. Everything seemed fake. My knees shook. My chest hurt. I felt like a drowning sailor whose lifesaver had just been snatched. Oh, I had doubted myself before–no creative hasn’t. But this voice, so coldly mature and overflowing with simple pragmatism, struck me down with the weight of, well, the Doctor’s T.A.R.D.I.S. I suddenly knew the words were true. The voice was not lying.

“No, you won’t.” (Source: “Anxiety Attack” by Art in Nexus)

My siblings and I spent the rest of the day at the convention, taking in the sights and wonders, and I tried ignoring my horrific epiphany. But those words never fully left me. “No, you won’t.” No, I would never be able to meet David Tennant again because I would never become a great storyteller–a star in filmmaking–like I always imagined I would one day be. I would never be a success at all. Those fantasies were just coping mechanisms of a youth desperate to find meaning in the pain of his brutal reality.

No, I would not be one of those lucky ones who became what they wanted to be. All this time, I had been wrong.

The Years Roll By . . .

I thought the panic was another one of my low moments I would pick myself up from, but many signs over the next few years proved that these three words would not leave me.

Soon after Dragon Con, I was able to re-watch The Lord of the Rings trilogy in theaters: a dear occasion that (amongst the other pearls of wisdom I uncovered in Middle-earth) showed me how much I had been an unhappy prisoner of my childhood dreams.

Before 2019 was out, I filmed and began editing my first post-university short film. It turned out not to be anything I had wanted it to be.

2020 soon arrived and we all remember how that year went down…it did not help me.

I eventually finished Cosmos’ first draft in mid-2021. Yet, by the end of that year, I watched my opportunity to move to Los Angeles–my last real chance to get into the film industry–go up in smoke right as I realized I had to quit my job. Slowly, I started to stop daydreaming stories and began hating every day I woke up.

2022 started with me realizing one of my true loves, movies and filmmaking, never loved me the way I did it, and the medium was never the apple of my eye again. The anxiety I carried around that I was never going to be anything more than this lousy state of being almost caused me to fall into a fetal position in a public park one day during a sudden panic attack. I tried many other creative projects that either failed or moved at so slow a pace they might as well have been hobbies.

2023 came and went, and I learned there were definitively no opportunities to join the film industry, much less start real work of my own again. Meanwhile, I kept hearing stories about how every other starry-eyed youth was getting into film festivals or had a massive online following for their work. Whereas I was getting sicker, older, and running out of time to save myself from being nothing . . .

This year, 2024, has seen more success. I am writing to you now, after all. I have a better teaching job than before. Cosmos’ second draft is on a steady pace towards completion, and my creative projects have become much more focused and better in quality. I made my peace with movies, and still regularly marvel at what I found in my local cineplex. But then, just the other day, I tried making a new short film with my filmmaking buddy–one more bid to seize what I have wanted for so long–and suddenly realized I do not want to make live-action films anymore.

Me! The boy who had to make his mark on cinema the same way Doctor Who, especially when David Tennant was the star, made an impact on my heart, no longer wanted to pursue the craft he had spent close to 20 years studying, practicing, and sacrificing for!

But them’s the brakes. These last 5 years have proven that voice at Dragon Con 2019 more and more true as I approach my thirties. No, I will not become like my creative heroes. I will never become a colleague of David Tennant’s. My dreams that kept me alive during my darkest days would never come true. So, all I am left with is what I am now, and all the pain I endured before was for nothing.

No surprise, I guess. So many Doctor Who episodes end bittersweetly . . .

David Tennant as Doctor Who regenerating in the episode “The End of Time: Part Two” (2010)

Join the Open Conversation

What do we do when the dreams we worked so hard to achieve die?

Considering what I’ve already written…I don’t know. There is probably not one single answer, as we are all individuals with our own stories. The very idea of accepting the death of a dream goes against more than just the teachings of the modern industrial complex preached to us by childhood animated pictures and dime-a-dozen motivational speakers. The notion goes against my very spirit. I imagined for so long there was a light at the end of my dark tunnel, and now I am stuck in this darkness of uncertainty.

My nights used to be spent dreaming of a wonderful future where, as a creative entrepreneur respected as a storyteller and thus, finally, respected as a human being, I was a kind of heroic Doctor in my own time-and-space machine, with my own companions going on marvelous adventures. Now, they are spent exhausted, sitting on the couch, trying to get work done before I start my daily cycle again or escaping into another’s story, wishing I could be on the other side of my latest book, comic book, TV show, or major motion picture. Dead dreams behind me, and no future but the melancholy present before me.

So, I have been thinking about the moment I first realized I was never going to achieve my dream. Instead of trying to spin these hard past years into some trivial lesson fit for an unremarkable sitcom, I have been seeing how accepting this fact feels. Unsurprisingly, I have been having a difficult time doing so. Hence why I am inviting open conversation, because I know there are many out there like me who need to hear that they are not alone.

Perhaps, together, we can find something new to look forward to, past the graveyard of our dreams. Maybe, beyond the tombstones, there is a T.A.R.D.I.S. waiting for us.

Lastly, Two Observations

While you consider that invitation, here are two discoveries I have made over the course of writing this piece.

Firstly, I was very frightened of this sudden understanding that making live-action films was no longer a passion of mine. I was afraid of losing my identity and direction in life; terrified of recognizing, to quote Buzz Lightyear from Toy Story, “years of academy training wasted!” But, if I am being totally honest, I also felt relieved.

Accepting this truth (which had been building up for years) meant I did not have to wake up feeling guilty every morning for not working on my first feature-length film to be submitted into my nearest oversaturated film festival. I felt my mind tidy up a bit and my spirit grow lighter. Not because I was coming to terms with giving up on a dream, but because I was no longer burdening myself with worries that were keeping me away from new dreams. I allowed myself to be relieved that, knowing what I know about the film industry, I was not cursed to go anywhere near that den of vipers.

I was incredibly nervous to open up about my revelation to others. I did not want to hear unwarranted criticism or speeches about not giving up on myself. Yet I have found nothing but support and, better, hope. Those few I have talked with have encouraged me, saying that it is okay that I change, that I am still me, and I can still do wondrous things in this life. I have found the doors to my metaphorical prison open, and I can walk right past them towards someplace new.

Secondly, I have realized my passion for comic books and animation has not diminished. My decree that I no longer wanted to pursue live-action filmmaking was worded very specifically. I told my confidants, “I no longer want to make live-action films the way I have been trying to.” Meaning, I’m done vainly looking up work online or forcing myself into a project that never had legs–let alone my passion–to begin with, all so I could “officially” have a career as a filmmaker. Indeed, I still want to work on storytelling, but in a different way than I had been chasing after.

I related to this comic book version of Doctor Who © Tony Lee and Pia Guerra; IDW Publishing

Maybe I will never become the next Guillermo del Toro, Brad Bird, or Edgar Wright. Maybe I will have to be a teacher for the rest of my life, with monetization of my craft forever out of reach. Maybe I will never have the chance to meet David Tennant again and tell him, as a fully matured man, how much his work from nearly 22 years ago meant to my life. But that does not mean ALL my dreams have to die. So, I am working on reframing my state of mind.

I am currently pursuing making independent comic books. I am already planning on turning Cosmos into another kind of independent work. Even without recognition, my art does not have to end. My stories can live in alternative forms and mediums I am still passionate about, and my goals can evolve into more than just working with childhood heroes. My dreams might be all the richer and rewarding for such an evolution.

Lately, my future has looked a lot more open than it has been in years. I see work ahead of me that I believe in, not a ticking clock to be something my younger self said I must be in order to be a valuable human being. Free from that pressure, creating has become work again, not torture, and I have been much happier for it.

I am not saying my answers will help you, exactly. Unfortunately, I think we all have to find our own ways to keep living when our dreams fade away. That day at Dragon Con, I thought if I never became the one thing I chose for myself, I was nothing. The truth is that we have a heck of a lot more choices and chances to be something other than just the future person we decided ages ago we wanted to be. The takeaway I learned that I offer to you is: when your dreams die, consider whether they really went away or if they just changed with you. You might discover truth you never would have known otherwise.

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What’s the most counter-cultural revelation you have endured? Do you want support sharing your story? OBA Studios is here for you. We are a community of storytelling partners who know what it’s like to navigate the rough parts of creative entrepreneurial life, and that your story still matters.

CAPTAIN’S LOG

11/24/2024

Ceylan Gunduz

We had 3 several hours-long work meetings with the team members this week. We have a lot of big dreams and strong passion, but we need to make sure we can condense it all down to align with a clear, simple direction that we can reach an audience with. We’ve been diving into fleshing out OBA Studio’s profitability so we can make sure our marketing direction is on target. It is hard to balance the passion we have for helping tell people’s stories regardless of their means, with our need to make a living and have OBA Studios be profitable so that we are able to do more to help others. It’s taken hours of (sometimes) tense conversation because it is overwhelming to feel like we have to untangle an entire forrest of vines in order to build a bridge, but we have a very knowledgeable, creative, and flexible team. We are getting there—bridges are taking shape!