It’s been a long time since I last read anything by William Gibson. Too long, probably. I’d forgotten his talent for sentence fragments. I suspect I’ve unconsciously emulated him in my fiction.

I’m reading The Peripheral now. I’m nearly halfway through and enjoying it. He doesn’t constantly work in metaphor, but when he does…

I felt like I’d been socked in the stomach, my heartstrings yanked down and out. This was the end of chapter 35, on page 151 of the hardcover, and it was beautifully done, replete with evocative sadness and regret.

I think what I appreciated most about that metaphor is the way in which it is buried in a perfectly naturalistic depiction of our protagonist’s surroundings. Our protagonist Flynne sits on the front porch of a friend’s house, looking out over his junk-filled yard overgrown with morning glory, and she closes her eyes to imagine a different world in which her friend has a different life. When she opens her eyes once more, her hopeful vision is gone but the yard full of overgrown junk remains.

There’s no tangled attempt at squeezing meaning from this. It simply is. The metaphor—perhaps the fantastical nature of wishing for a different world, or the ephemeral nature of wishful thinking, or the silent reimposition of reality over our imaginings—is present and available to anyone willing to read it as such. The narrator lends no interpretive weight to any of it. The interpretation is left to the reader. I like that.

I think that might be the least certain form of metaphor. You, as the writer, cannot know whether or not what you’ve written will land. Your audience might take your words in unexpected directions.

That abundance of potential misinterpretation is always present, by the way. We like to pretend that we can write, or speak, in ways that will ensure someone else understands exactly what we mean to share. Mostly, I think we can’t. Mathematically precise formulations and extremely careful semantics may help, but complicated thoughts invite misinterpretation.

All of this leaves me with an even greater appreciation for Gibson’s metaphor. He’s decided that guaranteed the audience’s comprehension isn’t the important part—the important part is making his message available to those who will find it. Then he moves on, wasting no words on hammering his point home.

Relatedly, I love his descriptions of places. He’s achieved an information-dense terseness that I admire. Layers of meaning arrive in a turn of phrase. Depths of history and context are delivered in a brief moment of set dressing. It’s good stuff.

There is a downside, of course. If you aren’t moving quickly enough to keep up, if you aren’t willing to figure out how everything fits together as you go and reassess when you find out you were wrong, you’ll be left behind. I’m fortunate that Gibson’s style works for me.

I do wonder whether this approach (which I love) is contraindicated for upper middle grade fiction. I think common wisdom would say that it is—I’m sure the argument is something about needing to make sure that your reader is keeping up, not feeling lost. I’m not sure I agree.

Personally, I remember reading adult genre fiction by the time I was in fifth grade. I don’t think I’m the best reference point for a general audience. But I do think that we habitually underestimate young people’s willingness to engage with the confusing or try to keep up with things beyond their immediate comprehension. What else is childhood, really?

Regardless, I’m enjoying this book. I’ll probably have something more to say about it when I finish it. Until then, take care out there.