Tim Barrus, New York Times

I am a communist. Every single book of the dozen I’ve published, has been banned. Here, in Appalachia, I am an evil radical. I came home one night to find all of my pets hung by the neck with wire, and hanging from the front porch ceiling. Then, the emails started. The hate from this was so thick, you could smell it a mile away.  When they say they are going to kill you, they mean what they say. When they buy a gun, they mean what they say. When they rage on social media, they mean what they say. This is not, they don’t mean what they say. They mean what they say. The civil war was their war. They own it. Threat #1: They will see your children dead. They are so filled with opiated chicken scratch, they are sitting in a car across the street. They really follow me. My writing is always called a little strong. Normal anything is ordinary. Worry. The ones who stand almost covertly are not the dangerous ones. They are just the shy ones. The one who will hang your cats in the corners of the party is the one in the front row who screams with his shaking fists. The language of YouTube. The languages of pop culture. I am not allowed to tell the truth in comments in the New York Times. Even in comments, I want my work to be read even as I spin it on command. I am accused by rhetoric of rhetoric. I am accused of not telling you everything about my life including blood work. My ideas are the ideas of the heretic. You will not read them here. It’s thought that has been banned.