The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to see the planets – Episode 55

Those following ships had almost caught up.

…

“On screen.”

A similar-looking man to the last appeared. We were only just beginning to grapple with successful cloning, and I wondered if those who were driving the projects were visitors from this galaxy.

If they were on our world, wouldn’t they be trying to use their knowledge, if not for avarice, but to help, or worse, to eradicate us as a threat?

It was too much for me to concern myself, that was for the high council to discuss and take action.

“Captain, I represent Krulaxl, the traditional home world of Princess Adwenana, and formally request her release into our protection.”

“Captain. For what reason?”

“That is not within my preview to discuss. You can be assured that no harm will come to her.”

“Everybody keeps telling me no harm will come to her, and yet they refuse to tell me about the purpose behind their request. I have discussed the Foroi’s intentions, and I will discuss yours with or without the real reason, but I suspect her response will be the same, she’d rather be recruited as a crew member of my ship that to leave it. Care to explain why that is so?”

“I cannot. Perhaps she is still traumatised from years of incarceration at the hands of the Foroi.”

“And yet there were no signs of ill-treatment.”

“They are very skilled at hiding their methods of torture which I assure you they visit upon all their prisoners.”

“Good to know. I shall speak to you again after I put your request to her.”

The comms officer ended the transmission.

Burke, one of the science officers said, “Captain, the new vessel has been scanning our ship, and tried several times to take the Princess.”

Of course, they had. Engage in a distraction while executing their true purpose.

“All divisions on alert for intruders,” I said, adding, “Let’s lift the threat level to blue.” There were only two after that: red, battle stations, an attack imminent, and black, we had been boarded and potential loss of control of the ship.

Our simulations of a black alert always seemed to end in a shambles, so I hoped it didn’t get to that.

“Number One, take charge. No more communications until I return.”

I’m sure by now the Princess was tired of seeing me. Certainly, when I arrived on her doorstep, it was surprising to see a wry smile rather than deep concern.

“If you keep visiting me like this, the crew are going to suspect we are having a clandestine affair.”

“That would only be the case if you were spoken for.”

She looked puzzled

“You already had a partner. We also call it cheating because we like the idea of monogamy.”

“We’re not that old-fashioned, but some still insist on the old ways. But no, I am not spoken for as you suggest.”

“And I have no other intentions or motives other than to protect you.”

It was odd to be having this type of discussion while five enemy ships with questionable intentions were nearby. I was sure the General and his team were in their element formulating attack plans, the first military operation in outer space.

It was the stuff of legends and names for high schools.

“The new arrivals have made their intentions clear. They want to take you to their version of safety. They claim you are a Princess from Krulaxl.”

“They would be correct. But that planet and people have been crushed and annexed by the Foroi, so they are pretending to be something they are not “

“Not a chance they are the resistance if the original citizens of Krulaxl could fight back?”

“It would be highly unlikely. At the time of the invasion, we were much like the equivalent of the Stone Age man on your planet versus your people in the 20th century.”

I had a hard time visualising her in a Stone Age dress. Or perhaps that was unwise. Like others from this galaxy, she had a very persuasive manner and was someone who was used to getting what she wanted.

“Have you considered my suggestion?”

“To join the crew?”

“Or I could be so much more for you.”

It took a moment to read between the lines, and it was disconcerting. Was this also a trait of these people?

“If I have given you any reason to think that my intentions were anything other than honourable, I apologise. It simply isn’t the case.”

“You don’t like me?”

“It’s not a matter of whether I like you or not; it is a matter of propriety, and as Captain, I have to set an example. That might not happen on your planet, but it does on mine.”

“Then I am sorry. I meant no disrespect. It’s just a more preferable option than leaving this ship.”

“Staying here might cause a great many deaths to my people, and I have to weigh that up against what may or may not be best for you.”

“If I go with either of them, more of my people will die, one way or another.”

The very definition of being between a rock and a hard place.

“Then how do we resolve this problem? If I agree to let you stay on this ship, you have to prove to me you have a purpose.”

“Perhaps I could mediate a truce between the peoples of our worlds. It’s clear to me that if the Krulaxl need me, if that’s why they’re here, then their uprising needs a figurehead, a reason to continue. And if the Foroi are here, they know the battle is slipping. It may present an opportunity to increase your profile and that of your planet.”

“You do realise the moment you leave this room, they will take you off the ship.”

“Not if they are forced to come here.”

An interesting thought.

“It’s an interesting scenario. I’ll be back.”

…

NaNoWriMo – April – 2026 – Day 12

It was a day like no other.

Oops, been watching Romancing the Stone again, and that catchy line caught my attention. Perhaps I can use it somewhere, one day.

But…

The project is proceeding on course, adhering more to the outline than less, and it’s looking good.

I know just in saying that the ship is about to founder on a reef, so I’ll brace myself.

Today’s quota of words is done early, so I can sit down soon and do the crossword over a cup of coffee while waiting for dinner to cook in the oven.

Perhaps we might have a New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc with dinner. What I’ve noticed with these is that they are not all the same; some actually taste terrible, and some are quite exquisite. I suspect it might be where they grow the grapes, even if it is in the same region.

And, later, I’ll take another look at the sidebar I decided to add and flesh it out a little more. In view of what is happening, it is rather fortuitous that it came out of left field because it will serve as a reminder that being home doesn’t mean they’re safe.

Sayings: Before you can say, Jack Robinson

Once upon a time, you could have told me Jack Robinson was a jack in the box; the name meant nothing to me.

Not until Phryne Fisher came along, a rather brilliant 1920s private detective series set in the back streets of Melbourne, as well as more salubrious houses of the rich and famous.
In this series, there is a policeman, a foil for her detective moments, and a love interest that is always just beyond her grasp, a man by the name of Inspector Jack Robinson.

How coincidental.

But…

As for the saying, before you can say Jack Robinson…

It has nothing to do with Phryne Fisher’s Inspector.

Instead,

There is one story of a politician, Jack Robinson, in the late eighteenth century, who was accused of bribery on the floor of the House of Commons in England. His accuser was another MP who was asked to name the culprit, and thereby coined the term, ‘I could name him as soon as I could say, Jack Robinson’.

The second was a Jack Robinson, the hero of a story written in the nineteenth century, who came home to find his intended wife married to another, and to assuage the pain of it, he went back to the sea, ‘afore you could say Jack Robinson’.

I’m sure there’s a ton of other sayings that could be attached to the name, but these seem to be the accepted reasons for the term ‘before you can say, Jack Robinson’.

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 85

Day 85 – Writing to please yourself

…

Writing for Yourself vs. Writing for an Audience

Why trying to please a “target reader” can lead you straight into a creative dead‑end—and how embracing your own voice can actually broaden your reach.

1. The Age‑Old Dilemma

Every writer, from the novice journal keeper to the seasoned novelist, has heard the mantra: “Know your audience.” In marketing circles, it’s a golden rule, in academic circles, it’s a prerequisite for a good paper, and in creative writing workshops, it’s often presented as a safety net: “If you write for someone who actually wants to read your work, you’ll have a better chance of success.”

But there’s a darker side to that advice. When the phrase “target audience” becomes a prescriptive checklist, it can morph into a self‑imposed prison. You start asking:

* Should I tone down my humour because “my readers don’t get sarcasm”?*
* Do I need to avoid political opinions because “my audience is 50‑something retirees”?*
* Must I keep my protagonist’s journey “relatable” in a way that feels forced?*

The result? A story that sounds less like you and more like a diluted version of what you think they want. In the worst cases, the writing turns bland, generic, and ultimately forgettable.

2. The Myth of the “Perfect Reader”

The idea that a single, monolithic reader exists—someone who will love everything you write—is a comforting illusion. In reality:

Reader Type	Typical Expectation	Reality
The “Ideal Fan”	Loves every plot twist, character, and stylistic quirk.	No one loves everything; even the biggest fans have pet peeves.
The “Critical Scholar”	Demands flawless structure and deep subtext.	Even experts can disagree on what qualifies as “deep.”
The “Casual Browser”	Wants light, easy‑to‑digest content.	They might actually crave something thought‑provoking if presented well.
The “Niche Enthusiast”	Wants high‑level technical detail.	Over‑explaining can alienate newcomers; under‑explaining can feel lazy.

Because each individual brings a unique mix of experience, mood, and personal bias to the page, any attempt to write for a single archetype is fundamentally speculative. You can only guess what will click, and even the most data‑driven predictions can’t account for the serendipitous spark that makes a reader fall in love with a line.

3. Writing for You: The Unexpected Advantage

When you write primarily for yourself, a few things happen that actually help reach a broader audience:

What Happens When You Write for Yourself	Why It Helps the Reader
Authentic Voice Emerges	Readers pick up on sincerity. A genuine tone feels trustworthy and invites empathy.
Risk‑Taking Becomes Natural	You’re more willing to experiment with structure, language, or theme—creating fresh experiences for the reader.
Consistency Beats Conformity	A clear personal style becomes a brand. Readers know what to expect (and love it), even if the genre shifts.
Passion Fuels Persistence	Writing is hard. When the work matters to you, you’re more likely to edit, rewrite, and polish.

Think of it as a two‑way street: the more you love what you write, the more chance there is that someone else will love it too. Authenticity is magnetic; calculated pandering is often invisible.

4. Real‑World Examples

Author	What They Did	Result
Haruki Murakami	Wrote stories about jazz bars, cats, and surreal parallel worlds because those obsessions fascinated him.	Global cult following; readers across continents adore his “oddly specific” voice.
David Mitchell	Mixed historical fiction with speculative sci‑fi purely because he loved the “what‑if” of time travel.	Critical acclaim and a wildly diverse readership attracted to his genre‑bending narratives.
Samantha “Sam” Cole (fictional indie blogger)	Abandoned a “listicle for millennials” plan, wrote a personal essay on grief because it had to be said.	The post went viral, resonating with readers of all ages who recognized its raw honesty.

These writers didn’t start with a spreadsheet of demographics; they started with curiosity, annoyance, awe, or pure love for a subject. The audience grew organically around that core.

5. Practical Strategies: How to Prioritise Your Voice Without Ignoring Readers

You don’t have to swing the pendulum completely to “write only for yourself.” Here’s a balanced workflow that preserves authenticity while still being considerate of readers:

Start in the “Me‑Zone”
- Freewrite for 15–20 minutes with the intention only of getting your own thoughts down. No audience in mind.
- Ask yourself: What excites me? What irritates me? What can’t I stop thinking about?
Step Back & Identify the Core
- Highlight the central emotion or hook that made you write in the first place. This is the seed that will interest readers.
Empathy Check
- Switch hats: If a reader stumbled on this piece tomorrow, what would they need to understand the core quickly?
- Tip: Write a one‑sentence pitch for a complete stranger. If you can convey the essence, you’re likely on the right track.
Selective Polishing
- Remove self‑censorship that dilutes your voice (e.g., “Maybe I shouldn’t use that slang”).
- Add clarity where needed (explain a term, give context) without compromising tone.
Feedback Loop
- Share with a small, trusted group who value honesty over flattery. Ask: “Did my voice feel genuine? Was anything confusing?”
- Use their notes to tighten the piece, not to rewrite it in their image.
Release & Observe
- Publish. Watch the comments, metrics, and, most importantly, your own emotional response.
- If you feel proud, that pride will translate into future work that continues to attract kindred readers.

6. “What If” Scenarios: When Audience‑First Fails

Scenario	What Went Wrong	Lesson Learned
A romance novelist writes only “safe” love‑stories to please the “mainstream market.”	Stories lack tension; readers feel the plot is predictable and disengage.	Authentic conflict—whether internal or external—drives investment.
A tech blogger avoids jargon to appeal to “non‑techies.”	Content becomes vague; both novices and experts feel the article is unhelpful.	Clarity doesn’t require “dumbing down”; it requires thoughtful explanation.
A poet tries to mimic the style of a bestselling poet to capture their fanbase.	The work feels derivative; critics call it “imitative.”	Originality beats mimicry; readers can spot a copycat from a mile away.

These cautionary tales reinforce the central truth: no amount of market research can substitute for genuine curiosity and personal investment. When you start building your work on the sand of “what I think they want,” you risk losing the solid foundation of your own voice.

7. The Sweet Spot: “Write for Yourself and Invite Others In”

Think of writing as hosting a party you love. You decorate the space, choose the playlist, and cook the food because you enjoy it. Then, you open the door and welcome guests. If the vibe feels authentic, the guests will stay, chat, and maybe even bring friends. If the party feels forced, no one will linger.

In practice, that means:

Let your passion be the headline. Your enthusiasm is contagious.
Use empathy as the entryway. A brief moment of “what would a reader need?” can help bridge the gap without muting your voice.
Accept that you’ll never please everyone. The goal isn’t universal approval; it’s a connection with those who resonate.

8. Takeaway Checklist

	I’m writing because…
1	I’m fascinated, angry, or moved by the subject.
2	I have a unique angle that I can’t find elsewhere.
3	I’m excited to experiment with form or language.
4	I’m willing to edit for clarity, not for conformity.
5	I’m open to feedback that enhances my voice, not replaces it.

If you can answer “yes” to at least three of these, you’re likely steering toward a piece that speaks both to you and, organically, to readers.

9. Final Thought

“Write for yourself, but don’t forget the world is listening.”

That paradox captures the sweet spot most writers chase: authenticity as your compass, empathy as your map. When you let your inner compass guide you, you’ll find that the world—sometimes unexpectedly—shows up at the destination you never planned.

So the next time you sit down at the keyboard, ask yourself: What would I write if no one were watching? Then, once the words flow, give them a quick glance to make sure the door is open enough for someone else to step inside.

Write boldly, edit kindly, and watch as the right readers find you—because they’ll be looking for the voice you could only have written.

Happy writing, and may your pages always feel like home.

If this post resonated with you, feel free to share your own experiences in the comments. How have you balanced personal passion with audience awareness?

Searching for Locations: Waitomo caves house, North Island, New Zealand

A relatively unassuming lane leads to what could be described as a grand hotel, called Waitomo Caves Hotel.

The original hotel was built in 1908, and it was later extended in 1928. Part of it is ‘Victorian’, based on an eastern Europe mountain chalet, and part of it is ‘Art Deco’, the concrete wing, and a feature, if it could be called that, is none of the four corners are the same.

Views from the balcony show part of the surrounding gardens

and the town of Waitomo in the distance.

In gloomy weather, it does look rather spooky, and I suspect there may be a ghost or two lurking somewhere in the buildings.

But…

This a a very interesting, and the words of one of my younger grand daughters, a very creepy place. It would make an excellent base for paranormal activity, and there could very well be ghosts walking the corridors of this hotel.

It has the long darkish passageways that lead in all directions and to almost hidden rooms, a creepy nighttime aspect, and the creaky woodwork.

I know when we were exploring, it was easy to lose your bearings, if not get lost, trying to find certain places, and once found, hard to find your way back.

All in all, it was one of the best stays in a very old place going through the throes of modernisation.

And looking at it from the outside at night, I’ll leave you with that thought…

“Second Thoughts”, a short story

Get me to the church on time.

It was a tune out of My Fair Lady, and it was in my head the moment I woke up that morning. And this day was, to quote some immortal’s line, was supposed to be the happiest day of my life.

But, somehow, it didn’t feel like that and lying under the warm covers of my bed, perhaps for the last time at my parent’s home, the last place I thought I’d find myself, I began to consider how it was I had ended up in this situation.

It was not a question of who the bride was, we had been friends from an early age and used to joke about getting married, but at the age of six or seven, that was a concept rather than something we might act on in the future.

Except that was how it panned out, and, not for the reasons one might think would lead to such an eventuality.

Yes, we were close friends till the early teens, then my family went in one direction, New York, and her family went in another, San Francisco, and in each place both families built successful businesses.

Josephine, the intended bride, and I met off and on over the next fifteen years, some of that mutually when we were at university together, and, I might add, living together. Even then, there had been no suggestion of permanency because we each had to go home to eventually work in the family business.

In those few years, it had been easy because there had been no expectations by either of us. We simply came together, stayed together, and parted at the end both happy to have enjoyed the experience.

Then, several events changed the course of our lives.

My father died unexpectedly at a crucial point in the company’s expansion, and without his direction, it began to flounder. Then, Josephine arrived in New York to open a branch of her family’s business, and just happened to arrive on the day of my father’s funeral.

I thought it a coincidence and was grateful for her support at a time when I needed it.

A month after that, one of the lead investors in the new expansion plan pulled out, as was his right because the loan had been contingent on my father overseeing the project. It was the end of a very bad week, and instead of being the last to leave the office, I left early, called up an old friend, Rollo, who had followed us to New York, and we went to his favourite bar.

He suggested a night on the town was called for and I agreed with him. I think by that time I’d had enough of the problems for a few days. But with Rollo, I learned no invitation was without its twists and turns, so when he said his sister was bringing a friend, I had to act happy even if I didn’t feel like it. Her friends could be a little strange.

Another coincidence, the friend was Josephine. Hearing from her once maybe, but twice in the same week, I didn’t think so, so I let it pass. Yet despite my reservations, in the end, I had to admit I was glad to see her because the last thing I wanted to do was entertain a quirky woman I didn’t know.

Long story short, Josephine’s family business came aboard as the replacement investor, but not without some rather stringent requirements, and though no one on either side would admit it, it was suggested that perhaps Josephine and I would make an excellent match. After all, we were childhood friends, had lived together without the problems that sometimes came with it, and we would be working very closely together.

I proposed, she accepted, and everyone was happy.

Well, not everyone.

I was down in the dining room getting breakfast, before the wedding, when Rollo arrived. It went without saying Rollo was going to be the best man.

Curiously, he was neither surprised nor shocked to learn of my proposal, but it was a surprise to learn, in a roundabout way, he wasn’t exactly happy for me. It was not anything I could put my finger on, but more of a feeling I had. And, to be honest, before I had proposed to her, I was sure that Rollo had feelings for her, and at times I thought how much more sense it would make if they were together.

I’d even asked him once or twice if he liked her, and he just said they were friends.

The other side of that equation was his sister, Adrienne, who was, I thought, charming, funny, and sometimes a little offbeat, which is why I was drawn to her. Over time, I think I may have developed feelings for her, but by the time those feelings were rising to the surface, I was advised that a woman of Josephine’s standing was more my type.

My mother could be very annoying at times, and whilst she might be looking after her son’s best interests, she was also looking after the company’s interests as best she could. I suspect Josephine’s parents were the same, hoping their daughter would marry advantageously.

Rollo, being on the outside, had summed it up perfectly, ‘if this had been the eighteenth century there’s no doubt you two would be the perfect match’.

“You look as happy as I feel,” I said when I saw him.

“It’s going to be a big day, church wedding, in Latin of all languages, then the society event of the year. What’s not to be happy about?”

Put like that, I shrugged. “A registry office, burger and chips at the local diner, then a few days in the Catskills would have sufficed.”

“And on what planet do you think you are right now?”

I didn’t answer. I simply poured another cup of black coffee and sat down. It was a large room, with seats for a dozen, and I was the only one up. I had expected a room full of family members, of which at least twenty were upstairs right now recovering from last night’s festivities.

Rollo poured some tea into a cup and sat opposite. “OK. What’s wrong? Wedding day jitters?”

Could he read my mind?

“It just doesn’t seem right. I mean, it seems we have been on this track forever, but you know, there’s something missing.”

“Love?”

Exactly. It was another of those thoughts I had just before I got out of bed. I liked her, maybe I loved her once, when I didn’t really know what love was, but now? I don’t know what it was I felt about her. I had been expecting those mythical thunderbolts to strike, but as the days, weeks, and months wore on, it just didn’t happen.

It was almost if we were going through the motions.

“It feels like it’s going to be a marriage of convenience.” There, I said it.

And I expected Rollo to start having a fit. Instead, he concentrated on putting three spoonful’s of sugar into his tea and stirring. And stirring. And stirring.

“Say something,” I said. “Anything. Tell me I’m being stupid, tell me to get out of my funk and screw my courage to the sticking place, or whatever it is you say in times like this.”

“It’s not like you to drop a bomb like this at a time like this…”

I felt he had more to say, the good part where he’d call me an ass, and then tell me to get my shit together. It wouldn’t be the first time.

“But…”

“But I rather get the impression this wedding might not be going ahead.”

“It has to. God knows how many people have put themselves out to be here. It was, my mother said, a logistical nightmare.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time this has happened.”

“You’re supposed to be arguing for the wedding, not against it.”

“I would if I knew your heart was in it. But it isn’t, is it? I think you’ve spent so much time trying to please everyone else, that you have forgotten about yourself. I know you’re not happy. I also happen to know that Jo isn’t either.”

“You’ve spoken to her?”

“Just before I got here. Call her. You two need to talk. In the meantime, you’re going to have to repay a huge debt after I somehow manage to sort this mess out. My car’s outside. Leave now, and I’ll let you know when it’s safe to return.”

“Where will I go?”

He smiled. “I’m sure you’ll know by the time you get in the car.”

It was reckless and would cause a lot of pain and anguish for my mother, but I considered how much more pain it would cause to Josephine if I didn’t call it off.

I made the call on the way upstairs to finish dressing.

“I’m assuming you’ve spoken to Rollo?” She didn’t wait for me to speak.

“You feel the same way?”

“It started out with the best of intentions, but I can’t help thinking if we were right for each other we would have married after university. We are best friends, Alan, and I don’t think it’s ever going to progress from there. I know you feel that too, it’s just the pressure from our families has managed to mask our true feelings.”

“Do you have any idea what sort of storm is about to erupt?”

“Everyone will get over it. There’s too much at stake on both sides for there to be any real or lasting consequences. I guess Rollo is going to have his work cut out for him. I’ll see you one the other side.”

She didn’t say what other side, but I suspect it meant when the dust had settled.

I literally ran downstairs, mainly because I heard movement and didn’t want to run into anyone, and out the door towards Rollo’s car.

Once again I had to admire the fact he had exquisite taste in cars, and the one he’d brought was no exception, a Lamborghini, yellow, fast, and he knew I wanted to drive it.

What I didn’t expect. His sister, Phoebe, sitting in the passenger seat.

Skeletons in the closet, and doppelgangers

A story called “Mistaken Identity”

…

How many of us have skeletons in the closet that we know nothing about? The skeletons we know about generally stay there, but those we do not, well, they have a habit of coming out of left field when we least expect them.

In this case, when you see your photo on a TV screen with the accompanying text that says you are wanted by every law enforcement agency in Europe, you’re in a state of shock, only to be compounded by those same police, armed and menacing, kicking the door down.

I’d been thinking about this premise for a while after I discovered my mother had a boyfriend before she married my father, a boyfriend who was, by all accounts, the man who was the love of her life.

Then, in terms of coming up with an idea for a story, what if she had a child by him that we didn’t know about, which might mean I had a half-brother or sister I knew nothing about. It’s not an uncommon occurrence from what I’ve been researching.

There are many ways of putting a spin on this story.

Then, in the back of my mind, I remembered a story an acquaintance at work was once telling us over morning tea, that a friend of a friend had a mother who had a twin sister and that each of the sisters had a son by the same father, without each knowing of the father’s actions, both growing up without the other having any knowledge of their half brother, only to meet by accident on the other side of the world.

It was an encounter that in the scheme of things might never have happened, and each would have remained oblivious of the other.

For one sister, the relationship was over before she discovered she was pregnant, and therefore had not told the man he was a father. It was no surprise the relationship foundered when she discovered he was also having a relationship with her sister, a discovery that caused her to cut all ties with both of them and never speak to either from that day.

It’s a story with more twists and turns than a country lane!

And a great idea for a story.

That story is called ‘Mistaken Identity’.

Sayings: Beyond the pale

I’ve often said, when espying an injustice that was so outrageously displayed that no one could miss it, as being beyond the pale.

The pale within a fence became an area of land within a boundary, such as a county, and then areas within Ireland that were held by the British. As these became smaller, those areas were deemed to be uncivilised.

This, in modern parlance, beyond the pale refers to someone’s behaviour being outside the accepted norm.

There’s also…

In a word: Pale

Which is the colour of the face of a person who is usually desperately unwell?

As distinct from a pale face, a white man is described by the American Indians. This, sadly, was learned from American westerns, motion pictures that told a rather interesting version of events between the Indians and the new settlers.

Paleface was in one movie, in particular, Bob Hope.

A pale can also be a single upright piece of wood in a fence.

Something could pale into significance or be a pale imitation of a better-quality article.

Not to be confused with a pail, which is a bucket, wooden or otherwise, that holds liquids.

The most famous of which is that which Jack and Jill went up a hill to fetch a pail of water, and, well, you know how that ended.

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 85

Day 85 – Writing to please yourself

…

Writing for Yourself vs. Writing for an Audience

Why trying to please a “target reader” can lead you straight into a creative dead‑end—and how embracing your own voice can actually broaden your reach.