There are times when the days, hours and minutes just seem to pass more slowly. When you’re buried alive, for instance. Or when you’re handcuffed to the radiator in a psychopath’s shotgun shack, just waiting for the distinctive sound of his murdermobile coming back up the street. (It’s an ice cream truck.) Or, worst of all, when you’re waiting for Booklist‘s Mystery Month to finally begin. That’s still 9 days away—feels like an eternity, doesn’t it?
Booklist wrote of Chelsea Cain, author of Heartsick, Sweetheart, and more: “Popular entertainment just doesn’t get much better than this.” Aw, wuddn’t that nice of us? We’re not always in such a giving mood. Take, hmm, let’s see, today for example: I’m dying to lock horns with Cain–her oeuvre of bestselling, critically acclaimed serial killer thrillers be damned! Will I end her reign of terror? Or will I be her latest victim?
Just who do you think you are?
I am a fish-, cheese-, and chocolate-eating vegan and I refuse to take any shit for it. I won’t eat sheep, but I have the head of one (taxidermied) in my office. I worry about BPAs and mercury and the incoming debris from the Japanese tsunami. I have double-jointed ankles. I drive a Prius, but sometimes I don’t recycle and instead just throw the plastic hummus tub right into the garbage. Then I nudge it down a little so my husband won’t see it. Once, in college, in front of a lecture hall of undergraduates, I noticed the professor couldn’t find his pen, so I offered him one from my bag. It was only after he’d started class and was waving it around to make a point, that I realized I’d handed him a tampon.