There are little green shoots pushing their way up through the soil in my back yard. Tiny hyacinths and snow bells. Intrepid harbingers of springtime. Like many people, for me spring is the season of hope. It’s funny because I’m usually not a big proponent of hoping. That is to say, I don’t believe hoping does any good. I’m a take action kind of person, a doing kind of person. Hoping, in the sense of wishing something will happen, just seems like a big waste of time. But springtime holds that other kind of hope. The anticipatory kind. The kind that you know something’s going to happen and you kind of lean in, waiting for it.
As such, I like books that are hopeful. Even if the whole plot is dark or scary or weird or dystopian or there are damaged people in it, if there is some semblance of hope, some hint that things will all work out or get better, I’m good. When a story basically holds no hope, I just don’t enjoy the experience of reading it and I usually won’t recommend it to anyone else, either. Sometimes, when I look around at the actual world that we live in, I am overwhelmed with it all. For me, reading is the antidote to that.