Rewriting an old story

So I started writing, as I do, but I got so far then thought ‘maybe I don’t remember this story as well as maybe I should before I go piling into it so I stopped and decided I should read back through the 27,000 words so far just to be sure I’ve got the jist. Lucky really cos it turns out I don’t but then, when I got bit further along this evening it turns out there are 100 quadrants as I’d thought, so…anyway, there are now 101 quadrants in space ranging out from Astaartaa into deep space, free space beyond the known, logged and charted. Still, there is a lot of detail in there that’s needs making notes on if I’m going to succeed in carrying it on with any aplomb.
Now is that a word that should be used more often or what? Aplomb, wicked. Aplomb, roll it on your tongue, a bit like meringue, or merengue, the dance, both of which need an amount of aplomb to achieve any skill at.

The story so far is amazing, who knew I’m such a sci-fi geek?
Actually I’m not so it’s as big a surprise to me as anyone else, not that anyone else is surprised because no-one takes a bit of notice of anything I do. No-one reads this, no-one reads my books and almost no-one bothers with my social media guff either.
Bovvad? Er…yep, a little.
Anyway, I’m conducting (oh yea, I’m the conductor, my Fbuk fwends the audience, yea right!) an experiment to see if anyone notices I’m not posting shit anymore. It’s frustrating because my photography is going through one it’s periodical high moments but what the Fffff, no-one gives a wa, gives a fu, gives a shhhh, the F’in C’s.
Anyway, could save myself a lot of time pissing about on Fbuk and the rest if I can go a week and nobody responds. I kind of hope they won’t cos then I can retain my general dislike for the human race with bells on.
I notice, much like everything else in life, that people post back to me IF I respond to them but the same people I chat to can’t be assed to respond to me.
There’s going to be a cull, no bats, no clubs, no blood, no baby seals, it will be a silent vigil, a slip into the dark, silent as a snake after the kill, a stalking, raging slink into the night, brooding, rejected but sated with the knowledge that the hermit survives while the socialite fails without the nurture of the spotlight…the f to the c to the muthafondlers


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