This article is part of the The Great Authors Series series.
To me, a thirteen-year-old Black girl, halted by Southern life, deprived of anything digital bespoke, I saw the MakerBot as a manifestation of freedom. It was a long-held breath, released at last, drawn in again cool and clean and tickled with that peculiar smell of ABS filament. Here we are, I thought, a promise so forsaken it had near become a lie was unexpectedly kept. Granted like a wish. Freedom.
There was a time in evening, before the night stirred up and made its own song, when the radio played and mother danced. Every feeling put into her that day was present like a scarf hung on her body. She turned and turned and never without purpose, but never the same way twice. I could close my eyes and see her again and wonder, what if a horn played? Not any horn, but a horn of my exact choosing. A horn as specific to me as my frown or laugh. That sits on the table by the gray potbelly stove like somebody kicked in the side of a tin geranium planter. She would probably stop dancing and laugh herself sick.
Are you concerned that you may be a character trapped in a Tom Waits song? Be smart and learn the warning signs before it's too late. Also, it's too late. It has always been too late.
I'm haunted by a recurring vision of a skeleton flipping me off. To avoid seeing this terrifying image in bumper sticker form, I pay someone with a blank bumper to drive in front of me at all times.
The Something Awful front page news tackles anything both off and on the Internet. Mostly "on" though, as we're all incredible nerds.
Famous authors of renown and infamy find new inspiration when unexpected sponsors pay them to write. Not even death can stop them!