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Well, it's definitely not done, but here's the bulk.

In the pub that night, everyone raised their glasses, toasting the ghost of Anne Huxley. Some people murmured additional prayers, but most stared at their drinks or their hands. After a few moments, a man sitting in the corner laughed croakily.

“I can’t believe everyone’s so choked up about a nineteenth-century poet.”

 Heads turned in his direction, and most people shook their heads and started talking again. At a nearby table, some students nodded to the old man.

“What’s your name?”

“Dr. Milton Boyle. I’m a guest lecturer at the university.”

“Ah.” The first man moved his chair closer and put out a hand. “I’m Sam.”

Professor Boyle shook it. “Students?”

Around the table, a few smiled and nodded.

Leaning back in his chair, Sam asked, “So you don’t believe in ghosts?

“That, and this town’s obsession with Anne Huxley.”

One woman put down her drink. “She was an artist. A poet with such imagination.”

Professor Boyle snorted. “Artists imitate each other. When one commits suicide, another fills the spot.” Ignoring several frowns, he continued, “poverty and death- that’s what ‘such imagination’ gets you.”

Someone farther down the table said, “The true sign of intelligence is not knowledge but imagination.”

Professor Boyle Milton smiled pompously. “Quoting Einstein doesn’t impress me kid.”

“Look Professor,” Sam began, “Imagination is the key to invention, to progress. Even a scientist could see that.”

“Imagination is based on guesswork and dramatizing reality. It’s nonsensical distraction triggering nothing but laziness.

A few people rolled their eyes and turned away.

More firmly, Professor Boyle continued, “To imagine is to suppose, to form a silly notion of something without foundation. Science is logical. I work in the real world with measurable results. Meanwhile, enthusiastic university kids daydream about ghosts and the power of the imagination.”

Sam shook his head. “I don’t know about that sir. The imagination is like a sixth sense. It works with or without the other five senses to change perception-“

“Exactly!” Professor Boyle exclaimed, dragging his chair even closer, “It distorts reality when left uncontrolled.”

“I agree that uninhibited, imagination can distort,” interrupted the woman, “but it can clarify as well. By combining senses and memories and logic and the completely irrelevant, we have brilliant ideas. Everyone has a gut feeling, but can you exactly measure that?”

“It’s called indigestion,” he replied dully, rolling his eyes.

Sam put down his drink and began pulling on his coat. “I can see we’re getting nowhere. It was nice to meet you Professor.” At the door, he added, “and Anne Huxley didn’t commit suicide. She froze to death, nearly two hundred years ago tonight.”

Professor Boyle fluttered his hands and faked a terrified expression. Sam grinned and followed his friends down the street.

Minutes later, Professor Boyle left the pub and emerged into the cold December night. He turned off the main road and continued walking down the alleyway behind the market wall towards his hotel. After he passed the dumpsters, the streetlights flickered, dimmed, and went out.

“Frigid. Faulty wiring in this cold,” he mumbled to himself.

Continuing on, he turned another corner and peered through the falling snow towards the end of the alley where a group of garbage bags was piled up against the wall. Thinking the city garbage men in the morning would enjoy unfreezing that mess from the wall, he suddenly stopped. Most likely due to the snow falling, his old eyes, and drinks he’d had, it appeared like the pile had just moved.

“Silly,” he said, moving on but still keeping his eye on the wall.

Sorry it's not indented. The format wasn't working. Oh, and sorry for ruining the end, but yeah, he dies either because of terror, or something else...

It's far from fantastic, but please let me know what you think. I'm figuring you can figure out what the word was. Hint-hint: Imagination. The real ending will make it clearer.

Youth and Other Topics from Junot Diaz

During the luncheon with Junot Díaz and his reading later that evening, I took copious notes. A couple friends laughed at this, actually. Nevertheless, I recorded some interesting quotes from the discussion.

Regarding male authors writing from the female point of view of a woman, he said that men struggle with “breaking out of the point of view of seeing women as ghosts.” Boys have to work incredibly hard to get that “privilege” out of their heads. I’ve noticed that some male authors create unrealistic women in their work, but I never viewed it as a sense of “privilege.” Of course, it’s probably unconscious; men don’t generally twist their morals and perspectives to see women differently, but it is an issue. Díaz said that he thinks women don’t necessarily have an easier time writing from the male point of view, but they usually do it better.

Just like in Oscar and Lola’s fictional lives, cancer played a part in Díaz’s life as well. When he was eleven years old, his thirteen-year old brother struggled with a serious form of cancer. Díaz said that cancer changes a person’s family and his or her childhood, and it was easy to see that although he may downplay it in discussion, watching his brother fight cancer had a serious effect on him. Of course, it would have an effect on anybody.

Lastly, Díaz kept calling us all “young people.” He said he was impressed with us and our questions, and he emphasized his strong belief that “youth is an incredible time.” So many people say this, but he said it a different way than I’ve heard before: “being young is really bad preparation for getting old.” Maybe this is a pessimistic outlook on life, but I believe him.

We anticipate wrinkles and osteoporosis, but we have no idea what that really feels like. With age and experience, we see everything differently and are shocked at the realization that the world is just like everyone said it was, but now we’re those people: those “old” people we naively thought we’d never become.

That may seem depressing and numbing, but there’s so much good to come of age like having the knowledge and experience to write like Díaz. It took him years to write The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, but it was worth it because it affects people, “young” people included. Isn’t that why we write? Díaz urged us not to write for money or awards or any of that, and I agree. Sure, money is darn helpful, but real writing makes the reader think and affects change even at the most minute level.

Running a marathon wouldn’t be the smartest idea when I’m eighty-years old, but eighty freakin’ years result in a lot of experience for writing or whatnot; moreover, that is something to look forward to. Also, this thought makes the transition out of youth less terrifying. I’ll definitely enjoy being young, although I won’t think I did it correctly when I’m old, but we can’t dread every day to come because we get closer to the back pain and the No,-I-don’t-need-to-see-your-driver’s-license age. Life at any year is an advantage, so let’s look forward to it. Heck, I’m so excited for when I save money at the movies with a senior-ticket or play pranks and blame teenagers for it. How awesome!

Part 1 from Díaz

By beginning the first part of the novel with Oscar’s love life as a seven-year old, Díaz sets romance, and Oscar’s related lack of luck in that area, as a major theme. We also see the beginning of Oscar’s obsession with everything science fiction, which continues through the novel too. On every page, Díaz incorporates Spanish phrases to emphasize the Dominican culture of the main characters. Because I’ve studied Spanish, I understand most of these added bits, but it would be very confusing and irritating to read the book without that understanding.

I’ve really enjoyed this book, but the beginning of Part 1 did not prepare me at all for the rest of the novel.  For some reason, I didn’t read the back of the book, so I didn’t realize Oscar was an overweight Dominican teenager for most of it. That being so, I read the bit about him having two girlfriends and immediately jumped to conclusions, expecting the novel to be about Oscar as a “player”. Clearly, the opposite occurred and I should read the backs of books more often.