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Sometimes I can get so involved in a situation that I let the small details crowd out the big picture. If I were a painter, I would liken it to drawing a flower in the corner of the canvas. Every detail would stand out, the tiny bend in a petal, the strength of the stem, morning dew drops, the delicacy of the bulb. The rest of the canvas is stark white, but that small flower is fucking perfect.

I’m not a painter. I like words. And I can spend weeks on one concept without taking a breath. I write and rewrite and edit and curse and write until I have it exactly the way I want it. Then I realize I have a ream of paper and one sentence. But that sentence is fucking perfect in terms of expressing my thought exactly.

The other day I was shooting the breeze with Kelly in G-chat. She spent the last month or so reading every post I have published on this blog. That’s almost six years of bullshit, kids. That’s dedication. I told you that so I could tell you this. Somewhere in that conversation we talked about the book I wrote that no one read, even though I posted it on the Internet and linked to it every week for six months. I don’t blame you; the book sucks. But that is (almost) beside the point.

The actual point is, Kelly said: All those posts about MoC? There’s your book.

Oh.

I’m not fishing for compliments (much), but all this time, I’ve just been talking about my mom and how goofy she is. I never thought anyone would think it was good or even all that interesting. I’m not sure I can do it, frankly. And I’m not sure I should even attempt it.

So I have a question for you. And you. And everyone who reads this post (and has read about MoC), even if you’ve never commented before.

Should I tell that story?

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