I saw this tweet the other day, and it really resonated with me. 

Sarah Hilary (@sarah_hilary) 

Bored to death with grisly crime. Headless this and severed that *yawns* Psychological suspense is the way to go crimewriting

I have to admit, I feel the same way. I don't know when my - shall we call it squeamishness? I think we shall! - began, but it reared its head during the writing of The Immortals. And trust me, that isn't exactly a book for the squeamish. Or maybe it was after 14, which has a scene that turns my stomach. Honestly, it must have been, because Judas Kiss is a straight up murder mystery, not a serial killer book, and The Cold Room, while a serial killer book, has no blood in it. Which was a fun challenge.

I remember having this exact conversation with an author I greatly respect. I told her I was starting to get put off my lunch by my work. That the violence against women didn't work for me, that I was scaring the crap out of myself, that I was having such vicious nightmares I considered seeking help. She very adroitly pointed out that suspense could be just as intense with the threat of blowing up a mall at the heart of the story as could the threat of dismemberment.

Her words stayed with me. I knew I had one more bloodbath of a book to write, and I dove into it with all my heart. But it wasn't gross, it wasn't freaky, it was simply violent. And that was better, but not quite enough.

I followed that book with one without a murder. No one dies in Where All the Dead Lie. On purpose.

And my Samantha Owens books are straight up suspense, heavy on the mystery, with a strong dash of romance. 

I guess somewhere along the way I lost my bloodlust. Even my reading habits bore out this theory. I steered clear of the writers I knew were going to have gorefests, and went back to some of my previous favorites - historicals, romances, mysteries and psychological suspense. 

Have I abandoned my roots? Perhaps. But my writing is stronger, it's more appealing to just about everyone, and I don't cringe when I have to discuss the plots. And boy, how, have I been sleeping better.

So what about you, chickadees? Have you ever been into the freakily frightening stuff? Who's your favorite suspense writer these days? Recommendations wanted!

You will be so proud.

Those of you who know me know I am a world-class control freak. World. Class. I am also a Taurus, which means I don't do well with change. But of late, I'm spending much too much time on the business of being a writer instead of the writing part of being a writer.

This is in part my inability to allow others to help me, a trait I've exhibited since I was a young child, one that isn't necessarily a good thing, and in part the sad reality that I started programming computers in the 7th grade, and have always been comfortable with code. You know how we all have special, idiosyncratic little talents? One of mine, probably as high up the food chain as my innate ability to spill tea on my research materials, is the bizarre ability to spot discrepancies in large chunks of seemingly indecipherable code. I probably could have gotten work with the NSA. Can't balance a checkbook or tell time, but give me a 17 digit number for my library card and I'll have it down pat after a few reads. What's worse, I know my credit card numbers. Dangerous, that.*

This isn't a strong ability, but one that drives me to Figure Things Out. As such, I tend to be able to teach myself computer stuff without a problem. Which means, of course, that I've been running my own website, newsletter, Facebook, Twitter, etc., from the beginning. It hasn't made sense to give over to someone else - in the time it would take me to compose the email asking for a change, I can just do it myself.

That's not to say I'm good at it. On the contrary, just because I can doesn't mean I should. Because it isn't my main focus, I don't necessarily know all the tricks, so it takes me ten times as long as it would an expert. Plus I'm a perfectionist. I'll do something ten times over that's probably just fine the first time.

And so. I've decided to hire an expert. Content will still come from my brain, but the techy aspects will be controlled by others.

I only have a few hives. I trust they will get better by the end of the day.

A few changes will be quickly apparent. A monthly contest will be instituted, as will a monthly newsletter. The content therein will have more of an "insider" bent than what you're currently seeing, so be sure to sign up. I've killed the Twitter feed to my personal Facebook page, I hope you understand. The two mediums are simple not congruent. But I will post the blog there, with links I think are worthwhile included.

Also, more housekeeping details: Comments have been turned back on. It came to my attention that not everyone uses Facebook and Twitter (GASP. Say it isn't so!)** and emailing me comments is a pain. You have been heard. Forgive me using Captcha, but it at least arrests some of the spammers.

And now is the time. Seize the day! If there's anything you'd like to see - changes you think need made to the site, to the blog, things I'm missing, topics you'd like me to write about, etc., leave a comment.

I'm off to immerse myself back in my research. For your reading pleasure in the meantime, please see the following blogs of writers I admire:

Laura Benedict

Deanna Raybourn

Greg Rucka

Laura Lippman

Dani Shapiro

Louise Penny

Murder She Writes

Stephen Pressfield

Gwarlingo

Doug Richardson

Jeanne Veillette Bowerman

Happy Wednesday to you all!

* Yes, all of this is probably undiagnosed Aspergers, but quirky is just a nicer term, don't you think?

** Kidding. I actually greatly admire folks who can manage without being sucked down the rabbit hole.

Have you ever driven along a familiar path, lost in thought, and suddenly came back to reality not know exactly where you are? Car coma, they call it. It's like being on the Penrose stairs, going around and around and never climbing any higher. Your mind winds around itself, blocking out at the reality to allow for fertile imaginations.

I had one of these vertiginous moments Friday. They're dangerous, truth be told, because if your mind isn't on your driving, your hurtling two tons of car down the road going forty, fifty, eighty miles and hour, people can get seriously hurt. But fun, for all that.

I'm underwater at the moment, working on two major projects. One is incredibly research heavy, one is fertile imagination land. Both, though, have me in fits of distraction, as was evidenced by my getting lost on Old Hickory Boulevard, a road I travel weekly. I came to and literally had no idea where I was. It took a full thirty seconds for the familiar to reassert itself. Gives lost in thought a whole new meaning.

This spatial oddity was further compounded by a mini-plague, which created actual vertigo. Hubby had a walloping plague, two doctor visit, highly miserable week. I attended to him with all the loving kindness I could muster, and was rewarded with a cold. So it was a quiet weekend as we both finally started recovering: a couple of nice, ambling walks, loads of chicken soup, and catch-up. Sundays are my favorite, really. A nice breakfast out, some work, then catch-up on whatever needs attending to. I like to read magazines on Sunday afternoons, Architectural Digest being one of my favorites, and Elle, and of course, People. I managed to eliminate everything on my online reading list that had been building since January, and feel so much more caught up. Rode roughshod over my inbox and got it down to zero, unsubscribed from several blogs that are no longer giving me what I need, and added a whole new category to my RSS feeds - Yoga blogs. I'm anxious to see if that helps my practice solidify.

Since the big project involves more reading than writing at the moment, I'm feeling a bit at loose ends. So I may be here a bit more, just to keep my fingers engaged a few times a week.

Have a lovely Monday. Remember, I turned comments off here, so we can chat on Facebook and Twitter instead. Tell me how you're liking the new set up, if you will. Like it? Hate it?

A little birdie (Thanks, Lori!) let me know that EDGE OF BLACK, the second installment in the Dr. Samantha Owens series, is up for pre-order on Barnes & Noble and Amazon. Since both pages have the back cover copy, I thought I'd go ahead and share it with you too. I do have the cover, but it's much, much too soon to debut - goodness, we're only just wrapping up the tour for A DEEPER DARKNESS. But trust me, the cover is a sight to behold. I love it. So... since I don't want to let the retailers steal all my glory... I give you Sam #2.

EDGE OF BLACK

The path of the righteous man is beset on all sides 

Dr. Samantha Owens is starting over: new city, new job, new man, new life. She's trying to put some distance between herself and the devastating loss of her husband and children-but old hurts leave scars. 

Before she's even unpacked her office at Georgetown University's forensic pathology department, she's called to consult on a case that's rocked the capital and the country. An unknown pathogen released into the Washington Metro has caused nationwide panic. Three people died - just three.  

A miracle and a puzzle... 

Amid the media frenzy and Homeland Security alarm bells, Sam painstakingly dissects the lives of those three victims and makes an unsettling conclusion. This is no textbook terrorist causing mayhem with broad strokes, but an artist wielding a much finer, more pointed instrument of destruction. An assassin, whose motive is deeply personal and far from understandable. 

Xander Whitfield, a former Army Ranger and Sam's new boyfriend, knows about seeing the world in shades of gray. About feeling compelled to do the wrong thing for the right reasons. Only his disturbing kinship with a killer can lead Sam to the truth...and once more into the line of fire.

EDGE OF BLACK will be on shelves and ereaders on 12.1.2012

Available for Pre-Order Now

Amazon
Barnes & Noble
Indiebound

PS: Be careful when looking for images to compliment the term tease... Oy, my eyes...

I cannot believe it's been twenty years since my friend Dail went missing. In light of some fresh press coverage, I wanted to share this with you. Please spread the word. Help us find Dail. 

On September 24, 1992, Dail Boxley Dinwiddie disappeared from Columbia, South Carolina.

It happens everyday. You hear it on the news, read it in the papers, see alerts on the highway signs. And with the advent of the 24-hour news cycle, Amber Alerts and a more responsive police force, these commonplace disappearances sometimes end with good news. I wish that could happen for Dail.

The facts of this case are cut and dried. On the evening of September 23, 1992, Dail attended a U2 concert. When the concert ended, she headed down to the Five Points area of Columbia with a few friends. They finished the evening at a bar called Jungle Jim’s. She got separated from her friends, and spoke to the bouncer at approximately 1:15 a.m. – 1:30 a.m. He remembers her leaving the bar as if she was going to walk home. She went north on Harden Street. And then she simply disappeared.

She was wearing an olive green long sleeved shirt, a blue LL Bean jacket tied around her waist, faded blue jeans and brown boots. She’s barely five feet tall and less than 100 pounds, has light brown hair and brown eyes. Her ears are pierced, and she has a crippled finger on each hand.

On every missing poster, under circumstances of disappearance, the words UNKNOWN and ENDANGERED MISSING appear. The posters, which were plastered everywhere we could get them, all over the country, read: 

KIDNAPPED. $50,000 REWARD for INFORMATION LEADING TO THE ARREST AND CONVICTION OF PERSON OR PERSONS RESPONSIBLE FOR THE KIDNAPPING OF DAIL DINWIDDIE.

Despite a $50,000 reward, no credible links have been made to Dail's disappearance.

What happened to Dail? She wasn’t the type of girl to just run off. She lived at home, was taking art classes with an eye on graduate school (she majored in Art History at Randolph-Macon Woman’s College.) Her parents and close friends immediately knew something was dreadfully wrong; she just wouldn’t have not come home, not called, if she could.

Dail and I went to college together. I don’t claim to be one of her closest friends. Though RMWC is a small school, she and I didn’t cross paths until senior year. The Dail I remember was a bright, fun woman whose smile could light up a room. She had an infectious laugh. She was smart as a whip.

I remember getting that phone call – Did you hear? Dail’s gone missing. I remember how my heart sank. How I felt like there was nothing I could do. How my fervent prayers went unanswered, and slowly, over the years, Dail’s face faded from the news cycle.

I have a little bit of Dail’s case in each of my books, something of a tribute to her. She has become a number, which saddens me. She’s in the Nation’s Missing Children Organization and Center for Missing Adults (MPCCN Case File 455F90) She is part of the Doe Network (Case File 635DFSC), and The Kristen Foundation (Investigative Case Number 92-31749). She is listed in news stories, columns, even appears in Wikipedia under the heading of Missing White Girl Syndrome.

None of that is important. Finding Dail is all that matters. If you know anything, or think you know someone who might, please call the Columbia Police Department at 803-545-3525, or the South Carolina Law Enforcement Division (SLED) at 803-737-9000.

The case is open, and they’ll listen to anything you have to say.

6/10/06 UPDATE -- THE STATE, Columbia's newspaper, has a story today. New DNA found in Dail's case...

5/16/12 UPDATE -- WIS TV Did a story on Dail's disappearance. With any luck, in this new social media age, someone will come forward with actionable evidence. 

This article first appeared on Murderati.com June 6, 2006

Many of you saw the story in the New York Times this weekend about how the ereader phenomenon of consumers wanting their books NOW is driving established authors to write faster. It was an interesting piece, but one that I think struck a note of fear in all of our hearts. The story posits that authors who used to write one book a year are now being pushed to do more: two, even three novels, with shorts stories and novellas thrown in to bridge the gap between books, because ebook original authors are producing at an alarming pace, and traditionally published authors must do all they can to keep up.

I don't necessarily want to get into a discussion about the Us vs. Them mentality that is starting to emerge between traditionally published and self-published authors. A few vociferous people are leading this charge, and it won't take you many keystrokes to find them and their opinions. Nor do I want to delve into the fact that quantity does not necessarily equal quality.

No, I'd rather look at this phenomenon emerging of fast writing, and this sudden conversation cropping up in the recesses about how fast you really can write a book.

How fast is fast enough?

Different books take different efforts. Some are hugely labor intensive. Some are research heavy. Some tap into terribly difficult emotions, and are just plain difficult to write. Some write themselves. Each book is an entity unto itself.

Each writer is an entity unto him or herself, as well. Some of us can write a book in three months. Some claim to be able to write one in two weeks. For some, five years, ten years, are the norm. For most, one book a year is a steady, reasonable pace. It allows for research, writing, editing, proper time for reviews and marketing and tours. If you're familiar with everything that happens in the course of writing a book, you'd know that it is hardly languorous. Yet suddenly, people are claiming one book a year is too slow.

I personally write two books a year. Not because that's what the market is demanding of me, but because it naturally takes me on average six months to write a book. But I don't have children, and writing is my job. I've been a full-time writer from the beginning of my career, and have been blessed with the right mix of people and timing and mastering my own learning curve to figure out an appropriate, comfortable pace for ME.

But there are many ways up the mountain.

Listen, literature is not one size fits all. Every writer I know, regardless of how quickly they produce books, are working hard, every day. Grinding it out. I have a friend whose output is maybe 100 words a day - 100 proud, keepable words a day. I have another who feels short if she doesn't hit 5,000. I fall in between - averaging 1,000 minimum, and when I'm really in the groove, easily in the 3-4,000 range. I write fast, yes, in comparison to some, but not in comparison to others.

The premise of the article hinted that readers may start abandoning their favorites who put out one book a year in favor of lesser known, new-to-them authors who are cranking out a book every two to three months. This is a theme in the new Us vs. Them mentality, and it's one that's going to get all of us in trouble.

Thriller author Steve Berry is quoted at the end of the NYT article with what I felt was the most salient thought in the whole piece. He said, "You don’t ever want to get into a situation where your worth is being judged by the amount of your productivity.”

I couldn't agree more with that statement. Especially for the writers who do take a full year (or more) to write a book. We've got a lot of pressure on ourselves as it is, with the advent (necessary evil?) of increased self-promotion - social networking, marketing and PR - in addition to writing. To start getting into the mindset that oh, hey, I'm not a good enough writer because I can't crank out five books a year is dangerous.

It will stifle creativity. It will drive the muse off a cliff. It will cause divorces and suicides and make writers quit entirely. You think I'm kidding? I'm not. We are artists, for better or for worse. And while not all of us are long-suffering, the artistic mentality is, at its heart, a delicate creature that must be fed and nurtured if it will continue to produce. Think of a farm, with acres planted, rows and rows and rows of corn. If the corn isn't watered and fertilized and cared for, it dries up and rots. Words, and Muses, and Writers, are the exact same.

I often gets fan mail that ends with the words "Write Faster." It's actually kind of a joke in my house - hubby tells me that all the time. Because ultimately, the more we write, the more we get paid, and eating and paying the mortgage is a Good Thing. We all want to make money at this, and the simple fact is, more product equals more money.

But we have to take care of our gift, as well. The Muse doesn't delight in being shackled to a desk and forced to spill words onto the page all day every day. Yes, we want more readers. I want more readers. But if I start mentally outsourcing my Muse to a factory in China, chances are, there's going to be some problems. Strikes. Lawsuits. Closures.

Writing fast is becoming expected. And that could lead to some serious burnout, and the loss of some great writers.

One of my favorite quotes is from Lao Tzu: "When you are content not to compare or compete, everyone will respect you."

I think that's doubly true for writing. Work hard. Meet your deadlines. Write smart. That in and of itself will make you fast. But don't try to compare yourself to other writers and their output, and don't cave to the pressure of writing fast if that's not your nature. That way lies madness.

Whoo-hoo! As reported in today's Publishers Marketplace, I am so excited to announce that Harlequin Mira and I have contracted for three more Samantha Owens thrillers! 

Fiction: Mystery/Crime   

JT Ellison's next three untitled novels, continuing the story of medical examiner Dr. Samantha Owens, to Miranda Indrigo at Mira, in a good deal, by Scott Miller at Trident Media Group.

Miranda is my new editor, and she's the absolute bomb. Just wait until December 1, when EDGE OF BLACK comes out, you'll see even more of her steady hand at work. She tweets @7thfloorwindow, you should follow. She is très amusant.

Thanks to all my fantastic readers and the lovely booksellers and librarians and book bloggers, et al, who've thrown in their lot with Samantha and Xander and Fletcher. We, and they, are most grateful to you all.

And as always, my awesome agent Scott Miller (@litagentmiller) made the magic happen, so I raise a glass to him. Never, ever underestimate the value of an excellent agent.

I know many of you are wondering where Taylor is. I felt like it was in her best interest to let her take a vacation for a while. Don't worry, I'll go back to her and Baldwin's story, and yes, I know what happens to them. But for the moment, let's allow the poor girl some time to recuperate, and get a killer tan. 

So with that, I say thusly, unto thees: Laissez les bons temps rouler!

I attended a fantastic event over the weekend, the Heart of Dixie's annual luncheon. Heart of Dixie is the RWA chapter for the Huntsville, Alabama area. It was a very fun day, full of lots of amazing authors and readers. And I am thrilled to announce that I've been asked to come back next year and be their keynote speaker. It's my first romance oriented keynote, and I'm already planning out what I may want to cover.

I got to meet the incredibly prolific Lora Leigh. Prolific, as in she used to write 12-14 books a year, and now has backed off to between 6-8. That's a lot of books. Makes me feel positively anemic by comparison.

My table at the luncheon was filled with both readers and aspiring writers, so the conversation flitted from topic to topic, but eventual landed on my writing habits. I had asked Lora Leigh if she is able to work on multiple books at once or if she's a one and at time girl, and she answered she was one at a time. I'm like that too. I find it difficult to juggle too many projects at once.

I shared my process with my table, how I feel I must write 1000 words a day. I really should have said in order to meet my own writing goals, I must average 1000 words a day. Because that's much closer to the truth. To say I write a 1000 words a day is disingenuous. Life gets in the way. Edits come in and need handling. You get sick, pets die, family members need your attention. You get up in the morning and just plain don't feel like working, and instead pour a cup of tea and grab a nice juicy historical romance and lose yourself in that world. 

I want to write every day. I really do. But the truth of the matter is, I don't.

In all honestly, I haven't been writing. For a while now.

It's not that I haven't been WORKING, quite the opposite. I loved this great piece on what life is like as a published author. It's very true, and exactly what's been happeneing here at Chez Ellison: The tour to handle, all the PR and interviews and blogs, revisions on Edge of Black, touchups to another project, the website to redo, a short story to plot, my previous shorts to put on sale, bios to update, books to read, research to be done, ideas to ponder, closets to straighten, Rita dresses to shop for, and a few other rather important things that shall not be named as of yet going on. I'm utterly exhausted come 6pm, and ready to turn off the computer and veg out in front of the TV.

But as far as creating? As in new ideas, new words on the page creating? 

Nope.

The longer I go like this, the more nervous I get. It happens about twice a year - usually right around release time. I know myself well enough to know that the habit of writing is almost more important than the writing itself. And when I finally sit back down to the page, it's going to be a rough few days. But the words will come, the daily counts will start adding back up, and by mid-July, I'll have a chunk of work behind me. 

But it's these in-between moments, when I've just finished a book and am about to start another, that I start getting hard on myself. Nora Roberts takes a day off between books. So does Allison Brennan. And if I want to emulate the people I greatly respect, I need to start cutting back on the in-between books downtime. I've taken almost a month this time, and while it's been lovely, I'm getting really antsy. I think I've finally decided that it's time to offload some of my writerly duties to someone else. And we all know how great I am at giving up control. 

So wish me luck this week as I attempt to let go. And get my writing habit back on track.

(This essay appeared on the Harlequin Blog April 30, 2012)

We writers have voices in our heads. It’s just a fact of life. The voices speak to us, we write their words on the page, and people read the stories and are captivated, drawn into a land of make believe.

All right. Let’s be honest and call this what it really is. Controlled psychosis.

You laugh, but think about it. Where else in the world are you allowed to let the little voices in your head control your thoughts, your words, and your deeds? Hmmm?

Most writers are loners, happily spinning yarns with their imaginary friends day in and day out. There are a few of us who are extroverts, who don’t like being alone, who thrive on connection, and communication with the real world. The rest of us are completely happy left to our own devices. We’re the ones who would survive solitary confinement – there would be so much time to create, to allow characters to develop and ripen into the kind of people we are fascinated with. Whores and heroes, cowboys and queens and teachers, private investigators and cops, and of course, no story in the crime genre would be complete without a medical examiner.

My medical examiner has existed for several years. Dr. Samantha Owens was first written as the foil to my main character, homicide lieutenant Taylor Jackson. In her very first foray onto the page, many books ago, she scrapes something off a dead body into an evidence collection bag and promptly takes a deep long whiff. I knew immediately this wasn’t a weak woman. As her character evolved, she became more than a foil – she was the conscience of the Jackson series. It was inevitable that I’d write a book with her at the center, she’s got too much spark to ignore, or resist.

Thankfully, my agent and the fine folks at Mira agreed, and off I went into Samantha’s world, whistling a happy tune.

But Sam’s story was about to take a turn for the worse. Any time you have a spin off series, it’s good to give the lead character some space from their previous role. In my case, I went to the extreme, and killed off her husband and children. Clean slate. Clean break.

Heartbreaking, though. And very hard for me. I’d grown attached to the characters, was living vicariously through Sam’s mothering of her children. I have none of my own, despite years of trying, and it was fun to have a set of twins on the page to play with. And Simon, her husband, had been a fixture in the series since the first unpublished manuscript, earnest and supportive and smart.

I’ve learned that sacrifices must be made to be true to your art. They do say to murder your darlings. In this case, with a spin-off, set in Washington, D.C. instead of Nashville, that sacrifice had to be Sam’s family.

The loss changes her. Instead of the strong woman from the Jackson novels, this Samantha Owens is delicate. Almost as if she were burned over 80% of her body, and the flesh has grown back a translucent pink; no longer her armor, but simply a sheet covering her pain, one that can be ripped off at a moment’s notice. Her scars may be internal, but she must overcome them daily just to function.

This decision also gave me a chance to have a clear reference to the huge losses Nashville experienced during the 2010 floods. It is a fortuitous sign that the book releases on the second anniversary weekend. We’ve rebuilt, but so many lost so much, and I wanted to have a tribute, a shout out, to my city.

I hope you enjoy the kinder, gentler version of Samantha. She’s still a tough cookie, but now she’s every woman, every man, who’s experienced a loss. Someone to identify with, and to root for. Someone who shows us that hope springs eternal, and you can survive even the worst of experiences.

Last night, a small bird came to our back deck to die.

We went out to grill, and there it was - old, and clearly in its final moments. We brought it some water, which was refused. I said a prayer, and told it not to fight too hard, and we left it to its course, checking occasionally to see if the time had come. It was not a gentle, nor quick death. The birds sang in the yard, a song of silence, and I was compelled to find something to mark this lone being's solitary and inevitable passage. 

This is what I found, and was somewhat comforted. 

Death of the Bird

 by Alec Derwent Hope

For every bird there is this last migration;

Once more the cooling year kindles her heart;

With a warm passage to the summer station

Love pricks the course in lights across the chart.

Year after year a speck on the map, divided

By a whole hemisphere, summons her to come;

Season after season, sure and safely guided,

Going away she is also coming home.

And being home, memory becomes a passion

With which she feeds her brood and straws her nest,

Aware of ghosts that haunt the heart's possession

And exiled love mourning within the breast.

The sands are green with a mirage of valleys;

The palm tree casts a shadow not its own;

Down the long architrave of temple or palace

Blows a cool air from moorland scarps of stone.

And day by day the whisper of love grows stronger;

That delicate voice, more urgent with despair,

Custom and fear constraining her no longer,

Drives her at last on the waste leagues of air.

A vanishing speck in those inane dominions,

Single and frail, uncertain of her place,

Alone in the bright host of her companions,

Lost in the blue unfriendliness of space.

She feels it close now, the appointed season;

The invisible thread is broken as she flies;

Suddenly, without warning, without reason,

The guiding spark of instinct winks and dies.

Try as she will, the trackless world delivers

No way, the wilderness of light no sign;

Immense,complex contours of hills and rivers

Mock her small wisdom with their vast design.

The darkness rises from the eastern valleys,

And the winds buffet her with their hungry breath,

And the great earth, with neither grief nor malice,

Receives the tiny burden of her death.

A burden, and a gift.

Namaste.