Last woman standing

Review by Booklist Review

Dana Diaz is tantalizingly close to making it in standup comedy. She's given up on L.A. and moved home to Texas to try her luck in a smaller pond a move that seems poised to succeed, as she might just win this year's Funniest Person in Austin contest. Frustratingly, climbing the comedy ladder comes with its share of sexually abusive moments, and when Dana makes a new female friend, it's easy to let vengeance against the men who have wronged them be the theme of their friendship. Gentry's take on building suspense is unconventional; the book starts out as a wry look at the struggle that is show business, then turns into a buddy story before finally becoming a gripping psychological thriller as revenge pranks become something other. Dana's friendship with a man from her past, and her agony over whether to reveal to him her past experiences with abuse, are highlights of this tale, but overall the relationships and interactions painted by Gentry are both vividly realistic and taken straight from #MeToo headlines. A topical, compelling read that librarians should hand to Paula Hawkins' fans.--Henrietta Verma Copyright 2018 Booklist

From Booklist, Copyright (c) American Library Association. Used with permission.

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Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

The life of struggling comedian Dana Diaz, the narrator of this provocative tale of psychological suspense from Gentry (Good as Gone), changes when she meets Amanda Dorn in an Austin, Tex., comedy club. Dana isn't good at being friends with women, but Amanda is different, and soon Dana opens up about the harassment and assault she's faced as a comedian. Amanda is no stranger to harassment. A former computer programmer in a male-dominated tech company, she's had issues of her own. Tired of the humiliation and intimidation, they form a pact to systematically teach each of their aggressors a lesson, hoping their efforts will save other women. The plan seems to be working, until Dana nearly kills someone. Confused and unsure whom she can trust-including herself-Dana flees to L.A., back to her life before Austin. But Amanda isn't done yet. She has another name on her list, and she's determined that Dana will fulfill her part of the bargain-at all costs. Gentry ably explores issues of gender, violence, and rage, though the too pat ending comes as a letdown. Agent: Sharon Pelletier, Dystel, Goderich & Bourret. (Jan.) © Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.

(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

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Review by Kirkus Book Review

A #MeToo revenge thriller set in the world of stand-up comedy."Every woman I know has gone through something. Raped, assaulted, harassed, forced out of jobs. Trapped in abusive relationships. We talk about it with each other when the guys aren't around." Gentry's (Good as Gone, 2016) second novel is fired by the fury of characters who have taken all they can stand from the men in their professional and personal lives. Dana Diaz is the token Latina on the Austin, Texas, comedy scene, struggling along at depressing open mics until she manages to come in second at the annual Funniest Person in Austin contestdespite the fact that one of the first-round judges is a well-known comic who roofied and violated her Louis CK-style a few years earlier during an audition in Los Angeles. Right around the time of her win, Dana meets a fan named Amanda Dorn, a computer programmer who prods her to acknowledge the buried incidents of abuse in her past. She then involves Dana in a revenge pact, persuading her that they must take down each other's abusers using any means necessary, from social media to assault and battery. Dana is surprised and a little horrified by how quickly she takes to the game, but many more surprises await her when she tries to escape Amanda's clutches and pursue her new career opportunitiesand a long lost ex-boyfriendin LA. The reveals come hard and fast, some a lot more believable than others, as the plot accelerates to its zesty ending.Combining high-tech mayhem with good old-fashioned gore and violence, this extended fantasy of truths revealed and vengeance wreaked will be a satisfying read for those who share its righteous rage. Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

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1 "Next up, Daaaaana Diaz! " A few hands clapped as I stepped up onto the wooden platform stage, picking my way around the PA system. Under the lights, I tugged my shirt hem away from the waistband of my jeans one last time, cleared a strand of dark brown hair from my lip-glossed smile, and palmed the mic, carefully unwrapping the cord from the stand. No point in losing two minutes wrestling it down to my level ​-- ​five foot four in the four-inch heels I am rarely without onstage. "Hello, everyone," I said. "Welcome to the Nomad open-mic; I will be your brown person for the evening." I waited for the uncomfortable snicker, but there was only the dim, offended pause of a bar in which the music had been turned off, followed by a hacking cough. I forged ahead. "Just don't expect me to answer your questions about Mexican culture. Like, mole sauce. What gives? Was someone walking along eating a Hershey Bar and tripped, and it landed in a pan of enchiladas?" Nothing. I mimicked the old commercial: " 'Hey, you got your chocolate on my enchiladas!' 'You got your enchiladas on my chocolate!' " One person tittered. "And don't tell me to go back where I came from. Amarillo is the pits." Silence again. I toyed with the mic stand. "Have we got anyone here from Amarillo tonight? No one?" There was no hoot. "It's okay, I wouldn't cop to it either if it wasn't my job. Well, hobby." I'd been back in Austin a little over a year, performing as many open-mics and guest spots and showcases as I could force myself to show up for, and I'd earned my slot in the Nomad Third Thursday lineup fair and square. But nothing was landing lately, and I wasn't sure why. I pressed on. "There's not a lot to do in Amarillo. I mean, the second-largest employer is a helium plant. When I was in high school, we used to hang out behind the Seven-Eleven and ​--" I mimed sucking on a Mylar balloon, then made my voice high and squeaky: "Hey, dude, stop bogarting the Happy Birthday from SpongeBob and Friends ." Blank stares. If my pothead voice has never been too convincing, it's because my weekends in high school were actually pretty clean. My best friend and I saw what drugs did to his big brother and wanted nothing to do with them. I made a mental note to work on my funny voice and kept plowing through the set. "My mom worked at the plant when I was a kid. For the longest time I thought she was a birthday clown." Beat. "Take Your Daughter to Work Day was a real disappointment." Scanning the seats closest to the stage for a friendly face, I saw only dull-eyed drunks and bad Tinder dates. I let my mind drift into the depthless glare of the lights. It was Jason, my writing partner and best friend since we were fourteen, who'd told me long ago to find the friendliest face in the crowd when I was bombing and focus on telling all my jokes to that person alone. Jason's trick rarely won the audience back, but I'd bombed enough by now to know that didn't matter as much as showing the audience you were doing just fine up there, thank you. Nothing is more cringe-inducing than watching someone flail onstage. Privately, I had a name for this rule: No blood in the water. I could feel myself fidgeting to the right and left, straining my voice to sound bigger. After four years in Los Angeles, it was a struggle to relax in this too-easy town. I missed the grind. The crowds in L.A. had been tough, but they'd made me tougher too; here in Austin, indifference was the killer. By the time I left L.A., Jason was barely talking to me, so I didn't bother telling him what I told everybody else: I needed a break, just a short one, and then I'd return. But it was harder than it sounded. Last time I'd made the move, I was five years younger, and I wasn't alone. Everything had been easier with Jason, who knew where we'd come from and how important it was to keep moving forward so we'd never slide back. So much for that. After four years in L.A., Austin felt like it had when I was first starting out, except the comedy scene was more crowded and the beer more expensive. Excerpted from Last Woman Standing by Amy Gentry All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

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