Everyone should make a point of reading a writer’s first novel. Not famous writers’ first novels, I’m talking about the plucky college grads who put aside their dreams of fame or financially stability to follow a passion that will very likely leave them utterly destitute and penniless. As readers, these are the people we need to stand behind because while the path to literary success may be riddled with self-doubt and suicide attempts, they should be encouraged not to give up, no matter what the big publishing house rejection letters tell them.
The Perplexing Problem of the Porcelain Bandits is the first novel of Dan Johnson, a book, he reveals in the acknowledgements, that started as a short story but was finessed into a novel at the encouragement of his writing group.
The novel is, shall we say, fiction, but to me it was more of a travelogue, a trek through the environs of a San Francisco dweller. The plot notwithstanding, this is a San Francisco book, and as an SF resident myself it was impossible for me not to revel in the passages of the main character as he trundled around the city, dropping familiar street name after familiar street name, business after frequented business, places anyone who’s spent any time here probably has encountered before, many times over. This is a book for San Franciscans who like hearing about their town. I couldn’t say whether a non-resident would get the same thrill out of Johnson’s city peek-a-boo as, say, I did, but there is a true sense of pride that shows through – he talks about the locations with the nonchalance of a local that also secretly harbors a deep passion for it, as many a San Franciscan does.
The storyline of the TPPotPB is almost irrelevant – about a guy (certainly not a man) who happens upon the secret life of a recently deceased housemate and takes it upon himself to unravel the threads of his mystery life, presumably because he’s got nothing better to do. And then there was something about toilets. I can’t say it was the desire to find out more about the plot that kept me turning the pages, but turn the pages I did, probably due to the way the characters slowly revealed themselves.
In terms of genuine storytelling I wanted for more from this book. A lot more. But either way, Johnson’s greatest gift is his ability to craft snappy banter. It’s quick and laden with your average 2011 pop sensibility. What made this book work for me, however, was how the main character’s San Francisco was my own, the very city whose coffeeshops I idle in, whose burrito joints I fatten up inside, and whose mysteries I’ve also yet to uncover. It was to my fancy to see another of my hangouts cheerfully and brazenly described, a trivia night at the Edinburg Castle, a random Mission bar Anchor Steam quaffing, the interior of the 47-Van Ness Muni.
Twentysomethings have a lot to relate to in this book, a circular and deadbeat life of taquerias and dive bars, along with cheap restaurants and languid days spottily employed with a future still so far away there may be no good reason to chase it. I remember those days too, before the baby and before my responsibilities (i.e. life) piled on me like the layers of Upper Haight fog. But I can’t help but look on this book with the same pride as the author probably takes seeing his first novel in print. From what I hear, writing one is good practice for the next.
