A sadness. A mini-depression, if you will.

Empty nest syndrome after finishing a heavy project.

It’s discombobulating, a little scary and lonely when you realize you’ve finished a project that’s occupied the majority of your thoughts and energy for the last five years. I’ve grown so close to my characters, breathed deeply of the world Aria for so long that suddenly – the real world feels cold and alien. Unfriendly.

How weird is that?

Furthermore, the difficulty in finding placement for ‘Murder of Crows’ has seeded doubt in the validity of the work, and brought a horde of questions to mind about whether I’m wasting my time by continuing the series or continuing to push for the writing dream.

Then I remember, oh, right. It’s been like a month and a half. Seriously. Chill out.

All the reader feedback has been positive, encouraging, uplifting. And I learned SO MUCH from this process and how to make it better next time, along with what things not to do and which mistakes not to make, that I can’t imagine not continuing because the learning curve was so sharp and amazing, challenging and helpful.

I just haven’t received a sense of actual fulfillment yet. This has created a strange, bewildering sense of being lost. Somewhat adrift.

Logic and conditioning tell me to sit my ass down in the chair and get back to writing, while worldly fear and angst push me harder to sell the book and find a foothold in the market so I can write without stressing out.

But what’s really happening is that I sit in front of the window, staring out at the trees, dreaming of new adventures and faraway places, while wondering why I feel like crying without any warning.

To be fair, I’m sure there are other factors besides the completion of the book driving this emotional rollercoaster. I suspect that now that my health is back to nearly normal, that I’m free to grieve. I also imagine that when I was so close to dying, and used the book as a floatation device, “write or die” and kept getting back up to get the story on the paper – now I don’t have that sense of necessity. There’s nothing to cling to.

Maybe I’m just letting the pieces fall apart that I held together over the last year of chaos and strain – weeping now that it’s actually safe to cry and let it all go before moving on to the next big thing.

It’s an emotional house cleaning so that I can re-boot to a greater strength. But knowing that doesn’t make it comfortable. Nor does it make it move faster.

It will take however long it takes to get through the debris of the last three years, and clear the field for something tremendous and worthy of the work.  

In the meantime, I can only do what I can do. Keep trying to sell the book. Keep plotting, building the arc and fleshing characters.

I need to get back to a place of center in the woods. Return to the water. Return to the spiritualism that got set aside during the time of panic. Be still and feel it. Be outside.

Breathe.

The magic is coming.

They’d nod with a confused smile as I left a party or bailed on a function. I’d hear them asking questions of one another as I walked out, “Who’s Liam?” “Has anyone met this Liam guy?” “Is she dating someone?”

Then over the years, as blogs came forth and the story of Liam became public – the questions behind my back as I left gatherings went like so, “She knows he’s not real, right?” “Is she…you know…medicated?” “Does she talk to all her imaginary characters?”

Finally, six years later the questions happen AS I get to the party, “Hey! How’s Liam?” “What has Liam been up to?” “What did he think about your trip to Utah?” “What did Liam think about the book?”

Which only goes to show, if you commit to a behavior long enough and with enough conviction – it doesn’t matter how crazy it looks from the outside – people will eventually accept it as inevitable.

Last fall one of my friends even asked me, in all seriousness, as we were having drinks, “So does Liam approve of the guy you’ve been going out with?” I would have busted up laughing, if she hadn’t seemed so earnest.

Now, as I’m coming into contact with strangers who know nothing of Liam’s origins but what they’ve read in ‘Murder of Crows’, the questions are shifting perspective. They are less of a personal nature in how he relates to my life and the intimacy we have in the realm of writer and character and more about the development of his character within the confines of the book and the world of Aria.

“What’s going to happen to Fable and Liam?” “Does Liam understand how Earth really works?” “What does he do on Aria when he’s not on Earth?”

Every question is precious to me as a writer because it helps me understand how to write him even more convincingly so that he is less a figment of imagination, and more a part of the world.

I’m excited that he will continue to unfold in the imaginations of strangers who will hopefully be able to adore him as much as I do. He might not make hot chocolate for them and complain about low ceilings or narrow doorways around them like he does with me, but hopefully he will spark a little inspiration – and when they see a dark shadow swoop across the pavement, I hope they glance up to the sky and wave.

Living with a character as impressive as Liam is not always easy. There are perpetual gouges in the linoleum and hardwoods from his talons. Feathers are always clogging the shower drain. I have to buy marshmallows and cocoa at Costco to keep up with the demand. And the guy sucks at laundry, I’m telling you, so many of my jeans have been ruined with bleach it’s unreal.

But the payoff is obviously worth it. He keeps me on track. Keeps me coming back to my computer to write, create, imagine. It would be a lonely, isolating process if not for the company of the personalities populating the space between worlds.

Liam is as real to me, as the friends and family I talk on the phone with, chat on facebook with and meet for coffee.

And I hope he will be that real for many readers…for years to come.

Be warned: I will be reading from Chapter 22, which is to say, the…er…scene with the most cock in it. And I don’t mean rooster. This is the chapter that got the book its adult rating.

If you haven’t read the book, it’s a giant spoiler fest which will likely require the audience to toast to each lewd word.

Someday Incubator
125 NW 5th. Ave.
Portland, Ore.

See you there!

P.S. Also of interest – I’ve dropped the cost of the digital versions to .99! Less than a buck, for the next couple of weeks! Grab a copy while it’s cheap and spread the word!!!

Anywhoo, I contacted Powell’s Books who then routed and rerouted me through several different names and numbers to get to someone I could finally speak with about what I should do for promotional stuff at the store on a local level. Because I didn’t know how these things worked, I assumed it was as simple as asking for help.

Not so much.

Five years later, I’m still surprised at how rude the community relations/event planner was to me over the phone. I asked if I could set up a reading or a signing, or even find a little nook on a shelf to “face-out” the book so local buyers would know – they were browsing a local author. You know, buy local, support your community.

The guy, whom we’ll refer to as Mr. Pretentious, challenged whether Schiffer Publishing Ltd. was even a legit publishing agency.

I told him it was, and said I’d wait while he looked them up and searched for the ISBN on my book. I sat outside a café in SE sipping my coffee while he tapped on a keyboard on the other end of the line. Finally, Mr. Pretentious returned with, “Oooh, well, that’s too bad, you wrote a book about Seattle. We can’t help you.”

“Excuse me?”

“You wrote a book about Seattle Ghosts. Obviously – this is Portland.”

“Obviously. But Seattle is three hours away, and many of our residents are from Seattle or visit regularly. And it’s a book with the supernatural/paranormal/folklore niche.” I was confused. Where was the problem?

“Look, we’re a Portland bookstore.”

“And I’m a Portland resident. Have been for a long time. This is my community and I would like to share my work with my community.”

“Well, then, you will have to sell it on your own, because local author or not, we cannot support a Seattle book. We probably won’t even stock it, and it’s likely most other booksellers in the area won’t either.”

“Is there any other way you can help? Advertising in the flyer? How much would that cost?”

“We can’t help you. Please stop calling.”

And he was gone. I’m sure there was more than that. I recall feeling dirty, embarrassed. His tone was humiliating and demoralizing, and the long sighs between his statements made me feel like an asshole for wasting his very valuable time.

I sat at the café shocked. It had never actually occurred to me that a book about a geographical area three hours away would hold no interest WHATSOEVER to my local neighborhood. And because the book would be classified as paranormal/hauntings/non-fiction/folklore and fell directly into a niche for people who liked/loved to research ghosts and supernatural phenomena as well as Pacific Northwest legends… it had never once occurred to me that there would not be a single person in Portland interested in buying my book.

Which is how Mr. Pretentious made it sound at the time. No one in Portland would give a shit about some book about ghosts that took place three hours away. More importantly, he was the voice for Powell’s so POWELL’S didn’t give a shit about it – or a local artist.

It was a long time before I shopped at Powell’s again, because whenever I walked in the store, I felt somehow ashamed. Like I wasn’t good enough to browse or spend money in a store that claimed to be all about community – and since I’d been so rudely dismissed – I was somehow no longer part of my own neighborhood.

It’s silly, I know. I should not have let them have so much influence over my psychology. But I was younger, just starting out down the publishing path and not sure what the rules were. I didn’t know I hadn’t done anything wrong.

I so badly wanted that rush of feeling from walking into a bookstore. Walls and walls and walls of books, stories, fantasies, information…truth. And one day, I’d find my book on the shelf, next to all my heroes.

That’s so not how it happened. The day I actually did discover my book on the shelf at Powell’s it made me angry and I walked out crying.

CUT TO FIVE YEARS LATER.

As the story goes, you all know the long battle over the next several years with writing. I turned down four more contracts from Schiffer then finally opted for the Portland contract, all the while dreading knowing I’d eventually be forced to work with Powell’s if I were writing the book, literally, on Portland. Then I got sick and was down for the count for two years and the contract blessedly went into stall.

Meanwhile, I was able to work on my true love, fantasy fiction while I was recovering. At last, ‘Murder of Crows’ was finished and released, under my own publishing steam.

Going indie in the writing world is like saying to a large bookstore/agent/publisher …”I hand wrote this book, and glued the cover to it with Elmer’s and my mom really loves it. Can you please put it on your shelf?”

As soon as you say “self-published” most sellers and agents, and even some readers roll their eyes and sigh heavily.

I knew I’d have my work cut out for me, and I knew I’d have to learn how to get better at marketing, advertising, networking. I also knew, at some point – I was going to have to deal with Powell’s. It ate at my stomach. Acid burn. Dread. I procrastinated.

I worked so fucking hard on this book, I just didn’t think I could take the abrupt painful dismissal of my own community. The snobbish upturned nose and beleaguered sigh of someone in a position to make claims about what my neighborhood wants to read or which authors they want to support.

Finally, I bit the bullet, and shot off emails to Powell’s Event Manager and also my local Barnes and Noble Community Outreach Manager.

Right away, the contact from Barnes and Nobel responded. “Shoot me your marketing proposal and your ISBN and I’ll check it out! We might be able to include you in our local author summer events.”

The contact from Barnes and Noble was so encouraging and uplifting that I almost completely forgot about my email to Powell’s.

Then this email came from Powell’s this morning.

“Hello Athena,

Thank you for your email. And for your patience with my slow reply. I was out of the office unexpectedly all last week.

Unfortunately, we receive far more requests for events at Powell’s than we can accommodate, and so must decline your offer. However, I wish you all the best with your new title. And thank you again for thinking of Powell’s.”

While at first glance it doesn’t seem poorly done, rude or unaccommodating, but here’s the rub.

This was what he was responding to:

Dear X,

I’m Athena, a local author. I’m previously published with Schiffer Publishing Ltd. for ‘Ghosts of Seattle’ and I have an open contract with them for a future book on Portland.

I recently published my first fantasy fiction novel, ‘Murder of Crows’, and decided to opt out of a contract and do it myself, the Portland way – which is to say… the indie way.

I’d like to set up a promotional event for ‘Murder of Crows’ ISBN-13: 978-1475098341

What options do you have for local authors and promotions or readings?

It’s available as a print on demand, but I’m can work with large shipments. It’s also available on all digital platforms from multiple vendors.

Honestly, I’m grateful for all suggestions and ideas. Please let me know if you have any questions. I’d also be happy to send you a copy for review. ‘Murder of Crows’ features Portland as the awesome city that it is, and I’d love to find a home for it here with its people.

While his response looked, polite, it was, in my opinion, the laziest, most half-assed correspondence to a community member/artist/ CUSTOMER in my dealings with them yet.

And apparently, Powell’s is so booked with events, they cannot book far enough out, to actually consider someone who lives, works, shops, creates in their very own area for any kind of promotion or event.

I don’t pretend to know what goes on behind the Iron Curtain of Powell’s Books, how difficult it must be to work there, surrounded by stories and artists and publishers all needing or wanting attention. I’m sure it’s rough.

But you really need to explain yourself as a business who BANKS on LOCAL support, LOCAL funds, LOCAL customers and culture and claims to be supportive of said local everything – but does not in fact have the professional courtesy to answer the questions in an email, “What options do you have for local authors and promotions or readings?” without a “we’re too booked or too busy for you, little indie author.”

In other words – “You’re a nobody. You might be local but you’re a local nobody.” (which I don’t actually dispute, I am a nobody author – but will remain so without the aid of my own community or support from buyers)

After reading Powell’s book purchasing guide http://www.powells.com/publisherinfo.html for authors who’d like to be considered for mass purchase to be stocked in one of their many locations. I have decided that I will not pursue Powell’s as a possible seller for ‘Murder of Crows’.

The reason is simple.

With the explosion in digital books, e-readers and the unparalleled access Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Google, Smashwords, Istore, and Createspace offer the emerging authors and self-publishers, AND the high print on demand quality and speedy shipping available through the wonder of the internet.

I am no longer required to work with businesses who have no interest in opening the cover of an unknown book.

I am not entitled to shelf space anywhere. Stock the book or don’t stock the book. Whatevs. Support local or don’t. It’s your business. Do what you want with it.

But the businesses who worry about Amazon and others, stomping out their profits, stealing their clients and customers or tanking their margins – must at least consider that as artists, we are being given very little choice in where we go to sell or promote our work.

Essentially, we are being DRIVEN right into the arms of the e-book publishing revolution, and Amazon is offering shelter, fair trade and professional courtesy. And as much as I’m an author – I’m also a reader…so where do you think I’m going to spend my royalty money, earned with blood and sweat. Right. Not on you, Powell’s.

Ultimately, the moment I compared the helpfulness of the two emails, the one from Powell’s with the one from Barnes and Noble, I realized that B&N is actually remodeling their business plan to accommodate the shift in market. They are reaching, adapting, working toward keeping the future of books and bookselling alive in any format, by any means necessary.

Just by using the word, “might”. “We might be able to include you.” “I’ll take a look at what you’ve got.”

That’s it.

That’s how fucking simple it is.

Just look.

So there you have it folks, the story on why you probably won’t find my books in the biggest locally owned and operated legendary independent bookstore in Portland. Why I will not pursue purchasing options with them, or make any more attempts to arrange events or any promotional of any variety with their business.

They’re just too lazy, and they no longer speak for my community in taste and quality and the adventure of discovering new books.

I’d rather my own community speaks for itself and there are plenty of other avenues for my neighborhoods to use their voices and speak up for what they want.

My favorite comments and thoughts, however, are usually about Liam. Our longtime Avian companion on the BlissQuest, about whom many posts have been written.

Erisian said that as he was reading, he came across Liam’s entrance into the story and thought, “Oh! Liam’s in this book!”

And there was also a question from a longtime reader who sent me this text: So what did Liam think about the book?

Good question. I’ll ask him.

Me: Liam, what did you think about the book?

Liam: (shrugs his wings) You left it unfinished.

Me: Right, because it’s a series. The next book isn’t quite done yet.

Liam: Then why are you not writing it?

Me: Because I need a freakin’ break after this last mad push to make the book happen.

Liam: You slept yesterday.

Me: True. Soooo what did you think about the book?

Liam: (stands and makes for the back deck saying over his shoulder) I will tell you what I think of the story – when you have finished writing it. (then adds belatedly) And I think I should speak more in the next story, do you not agree?

Everybody’s a critic.

Even the spotlight hungry figments of your imagination.

I’d been struggling with the last 100 or so pages of ‘Murder of Crows’, debating whether I even had a legitimate shot at getting published and frankly, was wallowing in some pretty serious depression about having been let go from my job.

The conference is small, intimate, with lots of room for questions and interactions. It has excellent food and wine and company. But what it really did for me, was set me afire again.

It refreshed my love of storytelling, sharing space with people who love words, and gave me a rush of new optimism that my publishing dreams had a real chance. Summer in Words stoked my flame. I went home from the conference, immediately ripped out three chapters and did a partial rewrite, then finished my last hundred pages in the next two weeks and had a fully revised draft ready for beta readers two weeks after that.

Furthermore, Summer in Words introduced me to the idea of self-publishing for the first time. I admit, at first the concept was not appealing. But the more I thought about it, mulled it over in my mind and counted my agency and publisher rejections – the idea I’d been talking to folks about at the conference began to put in roots. Self-publishing offered the kind of freedom and license that traditional publishing could never allow. More control over the craft. More say in the direction of your own career. More fair pay for your trade.

I resisted through 77 rejections. Before something one of the speakers said at the conference began to really make sense. “No one will care about your career, no agent, no publisher, no one – as much as you will. No one has your best interest at heart but you.”

And so I jumped. Took the self-publishing leap of faith.

One year after the conference, I have a finished book, polished and scrubbed and artfully crafted available for purchase with my own name on the cover. How cool is that?

If you need a writing charge, a reboot, a new perspective or just a getaway with like minds. Consider signing up for Summer in Words with Jessica Morrell. You can’t beat the Oregon coast in the summertime and your inner muse will thank you.

She asked about the book. My health. And then, “So, why haven’t you been dating?”

Ah.

Why did I ever think I’d get out of a happy hour meeting without that question popping up?

“Well, ya know…” I stalled.

Hem.

Haw.

“Because, well, with how much work the book has been… I haven’t showered in days.”

With my other friends, I can brush the question off, divert, change course, distract, sleight-of-hand conversation not unlike a Jedi that leaves them without a satisfactory answer and yet a newer, meatier question to replace it so they forget to come back to the original query.

No such tactic has ever worked with Azalea.

I wanted to say, “Remember 2009? Yeah, like, the WHOLE year of dating hell that I blogged about in detail?” I wanted to say, “Remember the health malfunctions, job changes, job losses, confidence crushing disappointments and blah-blah- excuse-excuse…”

But as she stared me down with those wise, caramel honey eyes – I knew there was no answer I could give her that would satisfy but the truth.

What truth? What possible temptation is there on this planet that’s worth the humiliating public enema known as dating?

Oh, right. Sex.

I mean besides that? Even though that’s a damn good reason. (Also, how sad that even the temptation of SEX can’t convince me to want to try dating again. Either the sex has not been good enough, or the perpetual failures in dating have eclipsed the otherwise awesome, alluring power of a good boning. Something to ponder.)

Honestly? The stakes aren’t high enough. I’m finally reaching the end of five years of struggle to get this book out. Five years of work and I haven’t wanted to be sidelined for anything less than fucking spectacular, rock star, mind blowing, orgasmic sex and relationship dynamics that make my toes curl until I forget my own goddamn mononame.

And what guy wants to live with that kind of pressure?

So. Here I am. Unshaven legs and growing a Fu Manchu mustache that would make any dude proud. My panties are falling apart and I haven’t done laundry in days, and I shower only when I’ve got the time, between book marketing and job hunting. Think that ad would get me any hits on craigslist?

I sighed and looked across the table. Azalea smiled with that quirky grin that means she knows she’s got me.

“I got nuthin’,” I admitted.

She nodded. Checkmate.

So, I went home thinking about it. I’ve obviously been fantasizing about love lately. Imagining the wonder of falling in love again, just, at a distance, from like, the cloisterish safety of my house that I leave only once a week or so.

Azalea’s expression had said everything. I’m being silly. A chicken shit.

Therefore, I drew a bath, poured some whiskey and settled in to shave my legs. Seriously. Needed booze to tackle that task.

The phone rang and I answered with a slur and bubbles leaking over the edge of the tub. It was MeMe, my oldest friend.

“Hey, Lady, whatchya doin’?” she asked.

“Shaving my legs,” I replied.

“Oh? What’s the occasion?”

And then I knew. Apparently, I’ve put this process off a little too long. Evidently, it’s time to get back out there….

It’s been pedal to the metal for the last several months. Very little sleep and lots of nail biting, stress and soreness from sitting at my laptop for hours on end.

Yesterday was one of the first days I was able to relax and catch up on sleep. In fact, I fell asleep sitting up, drinking a glass of whiskey. Obviously tired.

Strangely, with the pieces finally in play and my efforts turning more toward marketing – I’m feeling unmoored. Adrift. Marketing is not my area of expertise and… I haven’t been writing, which is making me itchy.

In fact, of late, with this drifty feeling of letting a project out of the nest that has occupied a place of priority for more than five years – I find myself in a state of dreamy head fantasies. Filling the gap of creation and imagination with half-baked romantic yearnings and fanciful visions of a much different life. My imagination is on fire, confusing the day-to-day functional necessities with the desire to sit down and gaze out the window.

Which means, I’m not exactly productive.

So with the marketing, continued job hunting, and summer on the horizon – it’s time to get back to some writing, use that abundant wistfulness to create the next set of stories.

But for today, maybe I’ll soak it in. Dreaming about the life I’d love to have, the lover I’d adore spending my time with and the adventures we’d have together. We’ll have a little break from reality, sip some wine and…

I’ll get back to writing…tomorrow.

Order Murder of Crows on Amazon!

The dreams have been pretty intense. Surreal. Packed with triggers and odd bits of baggage I thought I’d settled. It feels like something is turning over. Stuff from the bottom being rotated to the top and processed under new light. Things I haven’t thought about in years. Dreams. Wishes. Disappointments.

Obviously, these emotions are less fresh, or charged but it’s still surprising to be confronted with them when you think they aren’t a part of your life anymore. For example: A few days ago, someone who was asking about the book and my mononame status, innocently asked whether I intended to be a mononame forever, or if I would re-marry and take a new last name.

It was innocuous. Simple. Harmless.

And it didn’t bother me at the time, in fact I used my usual joke to sidestep the discomfort by saying, “Well, Jake Gyllenhaal hasn’t asked yet, so I guess I won’t know till he does.”

They laughed. I smiled. I thought the matter was dropped. Usually, once I play the “crazy girl Jake Gyllenhaal card, it stops all awkward questions immediately and people just go away.

All was well.

Then last night, after a dozen emails, some whiskey, then whiskey PLUS emails (don’t try that at home, kids. No bueno) I crawled into bed, thinking that it was a funny question, the whole, remarry and take a name question. It’s surprising how often it comes up.

But factor some stress, house-sitting for a friend in strange environment, whiskey and pressure cooker of deadlines, and last month of hormone treatments and you get BAM! Re-discovered baggage train in dream form.

The dream started off simple enough. I was spending time with a beautiful man I was deeply in love with. Who? I have no idea, only that I loved everything about him. Completely. Totally submerged in the feelings of bliss.

But then he knelt down on one knee and my heart lunged into my throat – NO! STOP!

And then he said it, uttered the words, “Will you marry me?”

And in my dream, I knew he was my perfect match, complementing me in every way – AND I loved him. Passionately.

But what did I do? In typical Athena fashion, I freaked the fuck out and turned around and ran. RAN like my life depended on it. I ran over a hill, across a field, down a dark path. I was out of breath, there were bears in the woods and I kept running.

Somehow, he caught me. I don’t remember if I fell or if he snagged me from behind but ultimately he demanded to know why I’d run away from him. I’d never met anyone so compatible, challenging…so perfect for me – and visa versa. We were meant for one another and he deserved to know why I panicked.

Weeping, I told him I wasn’t ready to give up my passport.

Passport?

I wasn’t ready to give up my passport?

But as I sobbed and struggled to explain, I told him, I didn’t want to live trapped in the woods. I didn’t want to give up my jeep and the freedom of the open road. Wind in my hair and asphalt ribbons all the way to the horizon. There was still a whole world to see, adventures to be had and treasure to find.

And I wanted to keep my passport to see all the countries I haven’t been to yet, cities I haven’t explored and cultures still to meet.

“I thought you loved me,” I accused. “Why would you want to trap me in the woods?”

And he started laughing. He laughed at me!

“Is that what you think it means?” he chuckled.

I nodded, offended that he thought my fear being trapped and diminished was so amusing.

“Because that’s not what being married means to me,” he finished. “I think it means, we go together. We see the world together, we adventure together. Together or it doesn’t work. The whole world – if that’s what you want.”

He reached in his back pocket, and pulled out his own passport. Then he knelt and said, “I don’t have a ring yet, but maybe you can hold onto this for me for now.”

I was overcome, throwing myself against him, and sobbing with joy. “Yes!”

When I woke in an unfamiliar bed at a friend’s house, I was drenched in sweat and had been crying in my sleep, tangled in the sheets.

I went to the shower to rinse off and sat thinking. Wow. That one came out of nowhere. Loaded with symbolism and metaphors ripe enough to pick. Not only was it unexpected, it was actually devastatingly romantic, hitting on a long buried trigger of fear and old baggage that has kept me single for the last seven years – and setting me free.

It’s one thing to know the answers logically, but to feel them emotionally, the truth and resonance hitting such a chord – it was enlightening and also revolutionary in the way I think and feel about relationships.

So, yeah, long story short…too late, something is afoot. Old wounds are being turned over, brought into the light to be re-examined and to have new truth shed on the darkest fears. Pressure and the effervescent bliss of reaching a goal has jiggled some things loose.

And I’m realizing some of the old weight doesn’t need to be carried around anymore. With new adventures opening up, and horizons still to explore – no one is going to take my passport, my name, or anything that I’m not ready and willing to just hand over with a smile.

No panic necessary.