Yesterday I was describing these “love stories behind the postcards” to my dad on the phone, and I said something like, a lot of them are pretty salty. But that was putting it mildly. Reading over the lot of these stories, one might get the impression of a writer who is totally bipolar! Because some of them are earnestly hopeful and unabashedly romantic, while others are positively dripping with bitterness, self-pity, and revenge fantasies. What can I say — such is the nature of me. A little sweet, a little salty, and subject to change at a moment’s notice. But in the same way that barometer is the best indication of a change in the weather, the absence or presence of hope is probably the best determining factor in the flavor of my writing, on any given day. On the days when I have no hope, I feel victimized by my God of True Love — overlooked, neglected, and very much unfairly forsaken. But on those days when hope emerges from the clouds like a burst of long-awaited sunshine, I feel invigorated, like I’ve been supercharged with some high-octane love fuel that could power me all the way to my best possible outcome: a long and happy life, with a loving partner to share it with. My own personal road of hope is paved with a constant stream of open affection and warm companionship (and not just with this someday fantasy partner, either). I feel this hope when I’m with my kids, when I’m working with clients I really love, when I’m out digging around in my garden, or even when I can bring myself to smile and be friendly with strangers while I’m out and about. So as long as I’m alive and conscious, I hope to have lots more of those moments where I can feel the loving truth of True Love, I haven’t given up on you quite yet. ❤️‍🔥—Y.B.D.