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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.


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?