The Last Housewife by Ashley Winstead

I left off last time with a statement about how Feminist Thriller Fiction might be my new favorite genre. Now, I proclaim it. The Last Housewife was a twisted, dark, nail-biter of a novel that I demolished in 3 business days. 

I’m not big on writing recaps (lazy) and I won’t apologize for it. I wonder if that makes me edgy or bad at writing useful reviews. I digress.

Ashley Winstead is a Sto.ry. Teller. No stone was left unturned; every detail was raw and vulnerable and gripping. Visceral. I’m not talking about graphic descriptions—those were arguably tame. I’m talking about the feelings Ms. Winstead’s words were able to pull out of me throughout the story.

It’s really rewarding for me to realize i got completely lost in a book. I used to be able to do that all the time—I loved reading, I loved getting wrapped up in a story of which I don’t yet know the end. It’s so rare for me now, after whittling my attention span down to 15-second increments across 3 different screens, but I feel like I’m re-learning the level of patience we all used to have when everything require just a little more work. I love a book that brings me back to thinking about (and admiring!) pre-teen Emily.

I’ll reel it in—we’ve got a flawed hero, a chance at redemption, and a Red Pill Blue Pill type rabbithole. You know it’s going to be a ride.

I am begging you to experience this journey yourself and really feel the shock and horror and fear and anxiousness. It’s good! It’s a release! Just remember to unclench your jaw.