By Michael A. Knutson
Reviewed by Miranda Boyer
In what seems like another life I knew the author Michael A. Knutson, of Doorguy, when he himself was ‘the door-guy’. At the time I considered him a dear friend and it was with a little apprehension that I looked up this book. In part I feared that it would be bad, not a reflection on his abilities per se but a reflection on my unwillingness to review yet another poorly written self published vanity book. After stewing on it a couple of weeks, I pulled up the title on Amazon and started to read the sample.
At first it seems rough around the edges and maybe it is, the wording here, or a sentence there. However, soon I found myself out of free pages and unhesitant I ordered the full book. In large, this is a is semi-autobiographical work of fiction. For a first time novel, the writing was remarkable and the prose excellent without question: worthy of attention.
Scott is a prideful, haunted, and often lost soul following the only song he hears: the call to create art regardless of the consequences. Landing in a small town in the pacific north west without means, Scott finds himself working as a bouncer by the grace of a kind stranger. What follows is the disconsolate account of a single human life over the span of a few years. Told in such a way that immediately connects with the reader, Doorguy is an honest account of personal tribulation and ultimately perseverance despite an unending plethora of social and moral repugnance.
Doorguy is a far cry from the feel-good-book-of-the-year award, but requires appreciation none the less. Not all fictions are blissfully happy but they ask and beg to share the spotlight. Doorguy is a lonely and often bizarre walk in a stranger’s shoes. I would strongly suggest giving it a few hours of your life; I can almost guarantee you will close this book and view nightlife, humanity, and art with new eyes. It will sit with you hours after you’ve finished, weighing on your thoughts and demanding your attention.