I was pleasantly surprised to read Liesl Schillinger's review of Nancy Horan's Loving Frank for the NYT. I've had my eye on this book ever since I knew it was about to make its way into the world. However. Quite a few individuals I've spoken to about my interest in this book have raised a surprised brow, looked at me as if I could not possibly be serious. With so many other "truly serious" books about to drop, why on earth was I fascinated with this debut novel about Frank LLoyd Wright's mistress-turned-love-of-his-life Mamah Borthwick Cheney?
My interest in this book was so high that I selfishly kept it for myself to read and review after assigning a great many other books for LAist contributors to read and write-up. I didn't want anyone else to get a crack at it - how crummy am I? Such is the nature of my interest in this book.
Yet the surprised, why would you review that when you could focus on so many other great works response I received from several lit peers stopped me in my tracks - I turned their gaze inward and wondered if perhaps I had gotten a little "off", a little askew in my tastes. While I didn't abandon my interest, I did allow their opinions to sway me, to at least focus me on other books before getting to Loving Frank. As it stands, I've not yet gotten to it. Were it not for Schillinger's review, I might have put it off even longer. While I may still simmer in the broth of my own silly shame, I can at least pat myself on the back for reading the review of the book I've neglected, no?
