Suzanne Tyrpak--Who's Imagining All This?: Author Zané Sachs--5 Question Interview

Zané Sachs stopped by today. She's created a new blog: Zané Sachs-Going Down, in anticipation of the release of her new book, Sadie the Sadist. The blog features forensic information, abnormal psychology, and Sadie's (questionable) recipes.

The interview didn't go as planned. Frankly, Zané Sachs is the strangest author I've ever met.

5 Questions:

Suzanne: Hi Zané. Why are you wearing that apron?

Zané: Hi. I've been in the kitchen--testing Sadie's recipes. Is that your first question?

Suzanne: Not really...what's that red stuff on your apron?

Zané: Ketchup.

Suzanne: Really? It looks like blood.

Zané: Is that your second question or your third?

Suzanne: What inspired you to write Sadie the Sadist?

Zané: Working in the corporate world. Specifically, a supermarket. Any day now, we're going to be replaced by robots. Seriously. While I was working, Sadie appeared--a full-blown character. She started whispering stuff to me, and I transcribed what she said.

Suzanne: Will you give us an example?

Zané: "Kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill."

Suzanne: Kill who?

Zané: Just about everyone. That's your sixth question! You can read a chapter called SEX IN THE BATHROOM on my blog. Here's a snippet:

Sex in the Bathroom

Over the past few days a lot has changed at the supermarket.

The check stands have been moved so the contractors they hired for the remodel can redo the floor, plus they’ve rearranged the aisles again. Bandages are no longer next to macaroni; you’ll find them on Aisle 6 across from Oatmeal.

There’s this new guy in Deli. He’s about my age, not a kid, but not an old man either. His glasses make him look intelligent and I like his legs. They’re muscular and tan. I know, because he wears shorts to work. (We’re allowed to wear black, knee-length shorts from Memorial to Labor Day.) I met him on the freight elevator. I was bringing down the trash cart, after emptying all the garbage cans, when Ranger rolled in a U-boat of roasted chickens destined for the dumpster. His name is Richard, but everybody calls him Ranger. He helped me load my garbage into the compactor—the bags from the trash cans outside the store are especially heavy—and, in return, I gave him a BJ in the employee bathroom. It’s unisex, down in the basement, and the door locks.

Now the poor schmoe is in love with me. Women sense these things, and we lefties are intuitive. He’s obsessed. I feel his eyeballs on my butt whenever I walk past.

But blowing Ranger is not the big thing (no pun intended).

The big thing is: Justus is dead, and I’m not sure if I killed him.