So, as is well known, I have this thing about hope. Hope, like most things in life is give and take. When and where to do the former and the latter, respectively is a very delicate balance. Plato said that given the option when choosing two evils, a sane man would choose the lesser. To me, having hope is the lesser. Had hope been afforded by all, disease would be eradicated, space understood, lives saved, art created. When hope is lost, so too are the gifts it brings. I would truly love to see Kurt Cobain in some small venue, stage, stool, mic stand, guitar on his lap, today. 
Many authors write about hope because we are the dreamers, the believers. Even in his booze-soaked despair, Hemingway believed. And Virginia Woolf, before the stones wrote of her hope that one day her long hidden characters would come to fruition, while Sylvia Plath hopes for peace on the other side. Emily Dickinson defined hope best as "the tune with no words that never stops at all". Unrelenting. I like my hope served up this way, because I always felt warmer in the company of better things to come. I like to have the kind of hope that doctors call me crazy for,  you know, hope that the "unfix-able" can be fixed. Remember when homosexuality was a personality disorder and a woman feeling amorous was considered "hysterical"?
All things living, and many things not for that matter, like the United States Constitution, are evolutionary. While change isn't always desired, it's inevitable. With empirical, historical proof of evolution, including the understanding of the human mind, why wouldn't I place my bet on hope?
As an avid reader, I espouse tons of hope; even when I already know the ending. Funny thing about hope in writing? It's the same practice. I have hope that my antagonist will finally amass some monochrome of redeeming virtue all the way to up to the end of the story. 
It makes sense to me, now, as to why hope is such a big thing for me and I am not alone...

-Deannalynn Arzola