William Gibson read at Kane Hall tonight. He’s one of Andrew’s favorites, so we went. It was also Andrew’s first day of work, so I did the running around for tickets and books for signing and a snack for the road, and finally, for Andrew at curbside.

The place was packed. Everyone looked like they could've been one of Andrew’s coworkers. They were all in buttoned-downs and Dockers, glasses hanging from their noses, gadgetry from their belts. Most were men, and what women there were I could hardly differentiate from the men until I looked directly at them. It was an astonishingly uniform bunch and William Gibson was its icon.

Maybe or maybe not like his fans, I thought he was laconic but cheerful—a personality mix I like, am drawn to, am comfortable with. I like the elegant speech of quiet people, how condensed it is with purpose, as if to spare the interlocuter the effort of any insignificance. I like language like that, whether spoken or written. And I like the mind whose metaphorical world is not the beautiful or naturally occurring, but the mass-produced and prosaic.

I haven’t read anything William Gibson has written. His reading of the first chapter of Pattern Recognition is the first I’ve experienced of this author’s work, this author who has been a favorite of every guy with whom I’ve ever been involved. Neuromancer’s been on the To-Read list, but I already know all about it, right? I’ve played CyperPunk. I saw The Matrix. I speak the language of the book, just like everyone else does.

I have been reading William Gibson’s blog, which has been fun. I like how the writing is bad. I mean it’s well-written, but it’s not all that interesting, just like a real online journal. At the reading he said that writing the blog was not like writing a novel. And I believe he said it was not like writing a journal either, but I might have forgotten how that part went exactly. I think he said that writing the blog was something strange—it’s own kind of writing. And this part, which I do remember: That he could not write a novel and keep the blog at the same time. I found his comments extremely comforting. I think it sort of resolved something for me about the whimsical writing in UFS and the focused, committed effort of writing a story. I write here because it’s easy; I’m not ready to make writing hard. Keeping an online journal does not make you a novelist. That goes for you, too.

My favorite part of his site is the short biography, where I learned that both of his parents died, in separate incidents, like mine, when he was a child, just like I was. I find inspiration here, and from other authors, Tolkien among them, who found exquisite ways to share the rich wisdom of childhood loss. It helps me believe that it is possible for me, too.

So we stood in the long line for book signing. The guy behind us had the same camera that we do (Canon S200). We talked about that a little while we waited, and he asked me to take a picture of him with William Gibson. When we got up there, Andrew handed over his books and I stepped off to the side to get a picture of him with the man. When he was through, I waited for the guy behind us to hand me his camera, but he had apparently forgotten. I approached to ask him for it and found him shaking and barely able to speak he was so nervous. I took his picture; I hope it turned out OK.

I’m reading Neuromancer now. So much already exists, or does not yet exist, or is already outdated. It is foreign and yet trite. But I try to imagine the 80s, and I’m still a little kid and I have my Apple IIc, which I can make say hi. Then the world is beyond my comprehension and I have to read the book twice.