He is no longer mine to lose, but the grief is there, a gnawing sense of disbelief.

I am now officially married to Fred Hargrove. Nothing will ever be the same.

Finishing books - and leaving the world you've created - is always a kind of emotionally wrenching experience. I usually cry.

The reason you can never go home again isn't necessarily that places change, but people do. So nothing ever looks the same.

This is the first day of my new beginning. From now on I'm going to do things right. I'm going to be a different person, a good person. I'm going to be the kind of person who would be remembered well, not just remembered.

There's still always the possibility that I've gone totally, clinically cuckoo. But somehow I don't think so anymore. An article I once read said that crazy people don't worry about being crazy - that's the whole problem.

Sometimes I feel as though there are two me's, one coasting directly on top of the other: the superficial me, who nods when she's supposed to nod and says what she's supposed to say, and some other, deeper part, the part that worries and dreams... Most of the time they move along in sync and I hardly notice the split, but sometimes it feels as though I'm two whole different people and I could rip apart at any second.