Wilson on the Search for Originality

By Trevor Siegel

Wilson Standish hasn’t been doing so well lately. His last book failed spectacularly with the critics for being too unoriginal, his marriage is slowly crumbling to pieces, and his latest attempt at writing a second novel has left him feeling defeated and hopeless. In a last-ditch effort to both save his career and his marriage, he takes his wife, Elsie, with him up to the cold, icy mountains of New Hampshire that they once loved to visit. Cooped up in the old rickety cabin, in which they once spent happier days, Wilson and Elsie soon both realize that being alone may not be enough to save what they love. To do so, they may need to work together.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Apr 11, 2019
• ISBN: 9781532072987

Trevor Siegel

“The Scent of the Queengrass” is the third novel by Trevor Siegel following “Grime 314: a novel” and “Wilson on the Search for Originality”, both of which were published while he was still in high school. He is currently a freshman majoring in film and media studies at Columbia University and owes everything to his loving family and friends.

Book preview

Wilson

on the Search for

Originality

TREVOR SIEGEL

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WILSON ON THE SEARCH FOR ORIGINALITY

Copyright © 2019 Trevor Siegel.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

iUniverse

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

ISBN: 978-1-5320-7297-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-7298-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2019904034

iUniverse rev. date:  04/10/2019

For Matty and Izaiah

And Darwin and Brewster too

CONTENTS

PART I     The Cabin

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

PART II    The Guests

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

PART I

-

The Cabin

CHAPTER ONE

W ILSON HAD NEVER BEEN A big fan of television. Film, he loved, but it was not so much with television. It was too, well, episodic for him. Besides, he never really enjoyed how the television networks always seemed to kill off a show’s fan favorite character after only the first few seasons. He didn’t really understand why they would want to get rid of their main source of viewers. Yes, the shock would make for a great moment of television, but in the end, it didn’t really seem to be the best choice.

But there was a more pressing matter for Wilson at this moment–his befuddlement. He simply could not find an interesting enough topic about which he wanted to write.

It was a common occurrence for a writer to find himself or herself sitting at their kitchen counter, staring at a computer screen in a state of complete and utter confusion. Wilson had been drinking a little the previous night, as all writers tend to do once the sun has gone down, but it was certainly not enough to bring about a loss of memory. He had previously done some in depth testing and found that it took six whiskies for a total loss of memory to occur. He had only had four last night.

He stared long and hard at the cursor on his computer screen, its small black body jumping in and out of reality with a complete disregard as to where it was or to whomever desired its use. He sat there for some time, his hands placed on the top of his head in a state of perplexity. Slowly, he moved his hands down slightly and began to rub his temples with a forceful effort. With a deep breath of the cold morning air, he closed his eyes and thought of each and every genre of which he could think. He really didn’t want to write a war drama, they were all a touch too dark for his tastes. A farcical comedy seemed like a good idea but it was too outdated to be shown to a modern audience. An epic fantasy would be fun to write but it was a genre far too often overdone. And there definitely was no way in hell he was ever going to write another crime thriller. He wouldn’t dare go near that genre again. Not after the first book. He pressed his fingers slightly harder into his temples and closed his eyes even tighter than they previously had been.

Come on, Wilson, he mumbled to himself in annoyance, the stale taste of coffee lingering about in his mouth like the last guest to leave a party. Come on, think! The self-command didn’t seem to have much of a convincing effect on his imagination, however, as no new or original idea had sprung forth into his mind. All of which he could think were story ideas that he would have to say were based off of older, better ones. ‘Oh, it’s my own take on the Macbeth story!’ he would have to tell people, or ‘It’s my interpretation of Fitzgerald’s Gatsby with hints of Sense and Sensibility for good measure.’ He sighed in momentary defeat and leaned back in the tall, rickety chair at which he was seated, gently taking his fingers from off of his temples as he did so. It wasn’t that he simply wanted a new idea for a novel; that was not the case at all. No, what he wanted and desired to find was a novel idea that was indisputably brand new.

He hated, loathed, and abhorred not being able to think of anything about which he could write. Five interminably long years had he been stuck on page one, that cursor enthusiastically taunting and mocking him for his lack of progress. It infuriated him. It kept him up at night. It made him want to quit and move to France. Wilson always had liked France; there was something about the culture that made him want to grow old and die there. He would be okay with dying in a place like that. Definitely not in Boston, though. Yes, it was the city that he called home and where he found the most comfort in life, but he couldn’t imagine ever actually dying there. Even the mere thought of such a thing coming to pass nearly scared him half to death. He didn’t know exactly what it was that brought this fear about, but he felt it all the same.

Wilson looked up to the small blue digital clock that sat next to the stove. It was barely past eight yet Wilson was wide-awake. Well, wide awake in the terms of the senses, at least. His body was still slightly sore after his friendly tennis match from the night before and his muscles ached for rest.

With a beleaguered eye roll, he raised his hands up in front of him and cracked each and every one of the knuckles he knew of within his fingers. He rolled his head from side to side to loosen up his neck and took a large, indulgent sip of coffee from the orange mug laying by the right side of his computer. Then, without a plan or outline of any kind, he leaned forward in his seat and placed his hands on the shiny black keyboard sat before him. Slowly but surely, he began to write, the sound of the clacking keys drawing him into the world he was lethargically beginning to create.

Garner the acquaintance of Deon Lewinski. A fellow of definite amiability and jocose verity, Deon makes his living by stealing from the poor to give to the rich; that is to say, he is a member of the most prestigious presidential cabinet the United States of America has ever had the pleasure of having: the cabinet of President Louis S. Mulhorn III, But when they ink the history books with the prodigious accomplishments of the Mulhorn presidency, you won’t find a single trace of Deon anywhere in there. For Deon was someone who you would never hear about. Deon was a ghost. No, not a ghost in the sense of a caustic haunting, but a ghost in the sense that he was always present but never seen. When Mulhorn dropped a flowerpot, there Deon was to wipe up the dirt. When he needed a good film to watch, Deon would procure one for him out of thin air. He was the closest person to the president yet the only person who stepped foot into the oval office that would never be known. Never be known, that is, until the day Mulhorn was shot…

Get me an IV fluid line and bring it to room one seven seven! shouted out a nurse to a small group of colleagues as she ran past, her hand plastered red in sticky presidential blood. Stat! She ran even faster than she previously had been running until she made it back to the emergency wing of the hospital. She sprinted through a multitude of screaming people and the throng of shouting reporters until she finally made it to the last door of the wing: room one seven seven.

Let me through! she shouted as she pushed through the crowd that had congregated around the entryway of the room. Let me through! She made her way to the door and straightened her uniform before making her way into the room. Before she could fully enter it, however, one of the uniformed officers at the doorway stuck his arm out and pointed at her with mean, squinted eyes.

Now where do you think you’re going, young missy? he asked with a brunt force.

The nurse rolled her eyes and jabbed her thumb at the ID badge on her chest. See the badge? she asked in a huff, still panting from her running down the halls of the hospital. That means I’m allowed to enter this room. I’m a nurse.

The officer chuckled. That’s all well and dandy, he said with a rudeness for which the nurse didn’t much care. But this room is bein’ occupied by the pres-i-dent, who if you weren’t aware was shot right in the chest earlier this mornin’.

I know! yelled the nurse, her spittle flying in the face of the rough officer. I’m the one attending on him right now, you putz! I’ve been helping him for the past two hours! Didn’t you see my leave when I went to go fetch more help?

The officer looked to his partner on the other side of the door. Did you see her come outta here before? he asked.

The other officer looked the nurse up and down, his facial expression never changing from its stony mien. Yeah, he said lazily as he leaned back up against the doorframe. I’m pretty sure I seen her ‘round an’a ‘bout.

Well are ya pretty sure or are ya positive, Bert? asked the first officer. I mean, this is the president we talkin’ ‘bout here.

I’m positive, all right? responded the other. He then gestured down with his arm and chuckled with a stupid looking grin. I wouldn’t forget an ass like tha’ one, now, would I McMannis?

The first officer laughed and looked for himself. Yeah, I guess you’re right, he said. He then stepped away from the door and gestured inside with a nod of his head. You can go in, young missy.

The nurse rolled her eyes and pushed through the two hormone filled creatures. Ugh, she whispered under her breath. Men. She closed the door behind her and walked over to the hospital bed in the corner of the room, making extra sure to have quiet, gentle footsteps.

How are we doing, Mr. President? she asked softly, slowly approaching the older man. His bullet wound had suddenly reopened before, which had been the reason she had sprinted out of there to get help, but it now seemed that the bleeding had stopped and that the help she went to get was unnecessary. She tucked the bedding around his body closer in so that he would be more comfortable. Not that he could feel comfort at the moment; the bullet in his chest had brought the president into an unconscious state, meaning that he hadn’t spoken or opened his eyes in the hours since the assassination attempt. You’re looking better than you were this afternoon, the nurse continued. The color looks as if it’s coming back to your face. She then moved over the closed window on the other side of the room and opened it slightly. That’s just to give you some fresh air, Mr. President. It’ll do you some good, I think. She then looked at the odd angle at which the president’s head was positioned on the pillows of the bed. That won’t do, she said with a little frown. With pep in her step, the nurse moved over to the cabinet in the other corner of the room and withdrew two fresh pillows from within it. Walking back over to the dormant president, the nurse gently took the old pillows out from under the older man’s head and replaced them with the new ones. There, she said warmly, fluffing the pillows to allow for maximum comfort. Much better.

Suddenly, the older man’s eyes flung open and he sprung upright in his bed. The nurse gasped in shock at the sudden movement. Then, without a moment of respite, the older man turned to the nurse with wide, wild eyes.

Get…me…Deon!

The nurse let out a tiny yet palpable scream of fright before quickly covering her mouth with her hands. President Mulhorn! she said quietly, moving closer to the hospital bed. Are you feeling all right?

The older man’s eyes seemed liked they were going to pop like balloons. Deon! His eyes then rolled back behind his head and he flopped back down onto the pillows, his body once again limp and lifeless looking.

The nurse ran out of the room screaming for the doctor to come in. The throng of reporters near the door started shouting again and began to try and get into the room, but the two door officers, rude as they may have been, were nevertheless good at their designated jobs. The nurse ran to the front desk and found her friend at the seat there.

Miriam! she exclaimed. You won’t believe what just happened!

The blonde woman behind the desk sat up straight and looked at her with wide eyes. What happened? she asked. Is everything all right?

The nurse looked around before leaning in closer and whispering quietly, So I was in the president’s room as before, right? Well his wound opened up for a bit and I went to get some help, but once I got help and came back, it was already taken care of. So I thought that everything was okay and tried to simply make him comfortable. He is the president, after all. And so I thought he looked a bit uncomfortable so I went and got him some new pillows. But then, all of the sudden, he-

Wilson suddenly stopped writing. His hands hovered over the keyboard, objects frozen in time. This was shit, he thought to himself. Complete, absolute horseshit. He leaned back in his seat once again and clumsily rubbed his mouth with his hand in thought.

None of this was good, he realized. Nothing made sense, it seemed. Why was there only one nurse assigned to the room of the president? Why did no one know of this Deon in the first place? Why was the hospital dialogue so clichéd; every hospital story always has at least one person yelling ‘stat’. And why did Mulhorn need a specific person to get him movies? He was supposed to be the damn president, for God’s sake; he should pick his own movies. Also, how did they fix his sudden bleeding in less than a minute? Wilson sighed as he shook his head from side to side. He was better than this; he was better than things that made no sense. Not only that, but nearly everything about this beginning of a story seemed clichéd. Not only were the characters unoriginal, especially those two horrible, sexist cops, but also the idea itself seemed just to be an amalgamation of a political thriller and an unlikely friendship story. He could already imagine it: Wilson! they would ask. What’s your book about? And he would have to respond by saying "Well, you see, imagine a story that’s like a mixture of Primary Colors and Of Mice and Men and that’s my book. And they’d then say to him, Wow, Wilson, that’s great! I love those books! That must mean that I’ll like your book too, right?"

But Wilson didn’t want this. Wilson did not want other people’s judgments of his book to be based on whether or not the reader liked a similar, better book before it. That certainly wasn’t how the critics would judge it. He wanted people to judge his book based off of its own creative merit and for its original style and content. To him, originality was everything. Now if he could only find it, then everything would be golden. For now, though, he was stuck here with the sad, rusting copper that was whatever this awful story was.

Okay, he said quietly, cracking his knuckles once more. Let’s try this again, Wilson, shall we? He sat upright in his creaking chair and opened up a new tab on his computer, his fingers tingling over the shining keyboard. Okay, Wilson, now think, he said, closing his eyes and taking a deep, solitary breath. Just think. After a minute or two, he opened his eyes and frowned in discontent. Nothing. Still, he figured he needed something to show for this morning, so he thought he’d give it a try anyway. Slowly, with his mind acting both fast paced and languid all at once, he began to type again.

The crisp and acrid summer air was split by the reverberate sound of the-

No, no, no! exclaimed Wilson, slamming his hand down onto the old countertop with a peeved annoyance. This is terrible, Wilson, terrible! What are you doing, you idiot? With a disgusted, disappointed glare, he eyed the single, clichéd line of description on his computer for a while longer, the only audible sound present in the kitchen being the faint echo of the city from outside the old apartment walls.

Wilson?

Wilson turned around in his seat to find Elsie at the kitchen door. Her straight jet-black hair had become slightly tousled during the night, but she still had an air of impressiveness that struck him dumb.

Hey, honey, he said with a faint smile. How’d you sleep?

Elsie groaned and stretched her arms out as wide as her wingspan seemed to allow. I slept fine, Wilson, she yawned. Although I didn’t much care for the way in which you fell asleep before I got home.

Wilson chuckled mildly. Hey, what can I say? he shrugged. It wasn’t my best day yesterday.

Elsie frowned and crossed her arms against her chest. Why? she asked with narrowing eyes. What happened?

Wilson shrugged again and turned back around to his dormant coffee mug and took another sip of the caffeine-laden drink. I’ll tell you later, honey. Why don’t you get some coffee, all right? It looks like you could use a cup or two. Or seven.

Elsie rolled her eyes and crossed over to the other side of the kitchen counter from the doorway. Oh, shut up, she mumbled under her breath, although it was still loud enough that Wilson was able to hear it. She then slowly found her way to the coffee machine in the corner next to the oven and poured herself a large, piping hot cup of whatever lay inside the shining, silver-tinted pot. As the steam from the drink seductively rose into Elsie’s face, she brought the mug to her lips and took a long, loud succession of gulps.

Oh man, she said softly, her eyes closing and her face elongating into a smile. That’s a damn fine cup of coffee. She then set the cup down on the counter and pointed at it with a little frown. It does need some milk, though. She moved over to the refrigerator on her right and opened it with a pop, the blast of cold air hitting the side of Wilson’s face and bringing out a subtle case of goose bumps. Elsie stuck her head through the open metal door and rummaged around for a few moments before sliding back out and groaning loudly.

"Oh, crumbs, Wilson! Did you forget to get the milk again?"

Wilson groaned and smacked himself alongside the forehead with the bottom of his palm. Dammit! he exclaimed as he shook his head from side to side like a house in a tornado. I knew I forgot something, yesterday! Honey, I’m so sorry; it just must’ve slipped my mind.

I’ve asked you like ten times already, Wilson! said Elsie, raising her hands in a questioning way. I mean how many times does it take for you to actually do something?

I know. I know, honey, I’m sorry, all right?

I mean, it just seems rude, Wilson.

Rude?

Rude.

Wow, really it seems rude?

Yes, rude, did you not hear what I just said?

We’re going in circles here.

Okay then, let’s start this again, shall we?

Wilson smiled briefly but quickly hid it behind his hand. Sounds great. he said, readjusting his placement on his chair and shifting his weight around a bit so his sore muscles could rest. I’ll start us over. Good morning honey!

Why haven’t you gotten any milk even though I’ve asked a thousand times?

So you’re not even going to acknowledge my good morning?

It feels a bit rude when you ignore something I’ve asked almost a dozen times, Wilson.

I mean I’m just trying to restart the conversation from the very beginning like you said.

Wilson?

Well, before it was ten times and now it’s a dozen? How many times have you asked me to do it, Elsie?

Wilson!

All right, all right. Wilson laughed, tapping his hands on the counter in humorous delight. I’ll stop now.

Elsie frowned and sniffed loudly. Good.

But it would help to know how many times you’ve asked. For the sake of your argument and all that.

Oh, crumbs, Wilson, mumbled Elsie, a resistant but visible smile beginning to creep up onto her pale but vibrant visage. Can we get back to the main point for once?

Wilson nodded and leaned forward in his seat. Right then, now tell me, he chuckled. Rude in what way, honey?

What?

I’m getting back to the argument. In what exact way was I rude so that I can better plan for next time?

Elsie nodded in understanding. Well it just seems a bit rude to me when you don’t do things after I’ve asked you to do them like, well, getting the milk, for example.

Wilson nodded right back to her. Okay, well I’m sorry that I’ve been doing that, honey, he said with an honest verity. I think it’s just that I’ve been a bit too focused on the book lately. I mean, all I have to show for my work lately is a couple of mediocre pages about Deon and Mulhorn.

Deon and Mulhorn? asked Elsie as her brow quickly became furrowed and confused. Wilson, I don’t-

Ah, never mind; it’s not important anyway. In any case, though, the point I’m trying to make is that I’m sorry if I’ve seemed distant lately. I’m just really anxious to find an idea, you know? Roman’s been on my ass about it a lot more ever since the Christmas party last month. God, I hate those parties of his. Every year, it’s just another extravaganza of excess and alcohol. Those parties really are something, aren’t they, honey?

Elsie chuckled and planted her shoulders down onto the counter as a support system. Yeah, she said with a grin. "You’re telling me. Do you remember last year? When he put a