[Pokémon] Author's Woes

The Merriam-Webster Online Dictionary said:

woe
Function: noun
Date: before 12th century
1 : a condition of deep suffering from misfortune, affliction, or grief
2 : ruinous trouble : calamity, affliction <economic woes>

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This will be a series of vignettes, sort of, bemoaning the trials and tribulations of being a fanfiction author/reader/reviewer. Updates will be infrequent, based solely on when a particular idea strikes me. These will not go above a PG, the fourth wall will be broken, and some people will be offended.


The author sighed, clicking his mechanical pencil irritably as he shifted uncomfortably on the hard plastic chair. He was grateful to the agency for letting him use the room for his Protagonist Auditions (Mark Three), of course, but he couldn't help wondering if they could have found him a room that didn't stink of dog, or even one with a table that had all four legs the same length.

"All right, then," he called, pushing his glasses up his nose and steeling himself. "Number one, come on in. Make it snappy – I've got a fanfiction to write!"

The door creaked open and a small, nervous-looking boy of about ten shuffled in. His brown hair was messy, and he wore jeans and a loose red jacket, beneath which a Pokémon T-shirt could barely be seen.

The author nodded thoughtfully as the boy shuffled his way to stand in front of the desk. "All right, kid, what have you got? Tell me why I should make you my protagonist! Sell it to me."

"Um, well . . . my name is Jack Ketchum, and-"

"Stop right there!" The author cut him off with an outstretched palm. He pinched the bridge of his nose tiredly. "Ketchum, you say?"

"Uh-huh."

"Your dad's name wouldn't happen to be Ash, now, would it?"

"Yep, that's him! He's famous! I want to be a Pokémon trainer, just like him!"

The author's hand found the buzzer with no help from his eyes, which were busy burning a hole in the wall above the boy's head.

Bzzt! "Next!"


"Can I get number two in here, then?" the author sighed. A young girl flounced her way into the room, swinging her raven-black hair in what she no doubt thought was a becoming manner. The author gritted his teeth as he took in the rest of her. She was slim, tall, and – although the clipboard in front of the author told him that she was only eleven – remarkably curvy.

"Oh, dear," he muttered under his breath. The girl stopped in front of his desk and beamed widely at him. She opened her mouth to speak, but before she could get a single word out, the author caught a glimpse of her eyes. They were a deep, rich shade of violet, with hourglass-shaped pupils that seemed to stare deep into your very soul.

"Get out of this room right now!" he snapped, whacking the buzzer.


"Number three!" he called. Third time lucky, right?

It looked like it was. The third person to come through the door was a twelve-year-old boy whose name tag – which the author had requested all applicants wear after the fiasco of number one – safely identified him as Dylan Richards. He wasn't particularly tall or strong, and his appearance was, thankfully, average.

"So, Dylan," the author grinned, given heart by the appearance of such a promising candidate, "how are you doing today?"

"I'm good, thank you, sir," Dylan said politely.

"Sir?" the author chuckled. "That makes me feel old. Just call me Author."

"OK then, Author," Dylan agreed readily.

"So, Dylan, where do you come from?" the author asked.

"I'm a Mauville City boy," Dylan replied proudly. The author nodded.

"Good, good. So tell me, what are your interests?"

"Me? I like biking. I do competitive mountain biking in all the major competitions in Hoenn!"

"Hmm. Do you, by any chance, excel at this pursuit?" The author chuckled internally at his own – rather pathetic – joke.

"Not really. I got fifth in the Hoenn regional competition once, though!"

"Well, that's great, actually. Now, next question." The author was getting excited. Could this perhaps be the ideal protagonist he was looking for? Not related to any major anime characters, not ridiculously good at sports, no strange, creepy, weird-coloured eyes . . . "Do you consider yourself to have any other special talents, at all?" That one would be the killer. From experience, the author knew that that was the question that tripped up a good ninety per cent of applicants who made it so far.

"Well . . ." Dylan glanced around suspiciously before leaning in close to the author, lowering his voice. "There is one thing . . ."

"Yes?" the author asked, his eyes narrowing.

"Ever since I was little," Dylan breathed, as if entrusting the author with a deadly secret, "I've been able to . . . talk to Pokémon." The author swore.

Bzzt!


Exhaling slowly, the author rhythmically banged his head on his desk, causing the paper cup full of water to wobble and spill a few drops over its edge.

"I give up!" he said loudly, standing up and kicking his chair behind him. "What is it with these people?" He stormed out of the room.

At the door, however, he paused to look back at the camera. "The sad thing is, boys and girls, that those poor rejected souls will almost immediately find employment elsewhere, thus putting all the earnest, hardworking protagonists out of a job. Please, think before you write. Think of the well-rounded, realistically flawed characters that will go hungry tonight because they can't afford a sandwich." He then strode out of the room, irritably shooing another half-dozen candidates out of his way as he went.