Oftentimes when you see adaptations of books you like, you're let

“Oftentimes when you see adaptations of books you like, you're let down. As an author, you assume that they are going to suck. A little bit of hope is dangerous.” — thus spoke Gayle Forman, a modern storyteller whose words reveal both the tenderness and the torment of creation. Her reflection, though born in the realm of art, speaks to a truth that touches every soul that has ever dared to dream. It is the ancient lesson of expectation and disillusionment, of hope and humility — the knowledge that when something leaves your hands and enters the world, it no longer belongs entirely to you. The author’s lament becomes the human condition: that what we love most is often misunderstood, reshaped, or lost in translation.

Forman, known for her novel If I Stay, saw her words lifted from the quiet intimacy of the page to the bright, roaring realm of film. To the writer, the page is sacred — each line a fragment of the soul, each word a pulse of the heart. Yet when art moves from one medium to another, when the creator’s vision passes through other eyes and other hands, something shifts. The author’s truth becomes a shared interpretation, and with it comes the inevitability of disappointment. In her phrase, “a little bit of hope is dangerous,” Forman speaks not of despair, but of the pain of attachment — the peril of believing that what was once entirely yours will return to you unaltered.

The ancients, too, knew this pain. Consider Homer, whose stories of Achilles and Odysseus were passed down through generations of bards. Each retelling brought new color, new rhythm, and perhaps new errors — yet Homer had no control over what survived. His work, like Forman’s, had to pass through the mouths and minds of others. And yet, though the words may have changed, the spirit endured. So too, the modern artist must learn what the ancients already understood: that creation is an act of letting go. Once a story leaves your keeping, it belongs to the world — and the world will do with it as it will.

But Forman’s warning goes deeper still. Her words touch on the dual nature of hope, that most sacred and treacherous of human emotions. Hope can sustain us through darkness — but when bound to expectation, it can also break us. To “hope” that another will understand your heart exactly as you meant it is to court sorrow, for no two souls see alike. The wise must learn to hold hope lightly, as one holds a butterfly: too tight, and you crush its wings; too loose, and it escapes into the sky. Thus, when Forman says that “a little bit of hope is dangerous,” she does not condemn hope itself, but warns against clinging to it, against the arrogance of believing that art, or love, or life will unfold exactly as we imagine.

The same truth resounds in history. When Leonardo da Vinci painted his Last Supper, he labored for years to perfect it. Yet when he left it behind, the wall began to crumble, the paint to fade, and the world — unable to preserve it — began to reinterpret it in copies, imitations, and restorations. For centuries, each hand that tried to “save” the masterpiece changed it further from Leonardo’s original vision. And yet, even in its ruined form, it inspired millions. What Leonardo lost in precision, he gained in legacy. So it is with every creator, every dreamer: we build what we love, and then must release it to the world’s imperfection.

Forman’s words are not cynical; they are wise. She knows that disappointment is not failure, but proof of love. One cannot be let down by something one does not care about. Her humor — that the author “assumes it will suck” — hides the tenderness of one who has learned to expect imperfection. It is the self-protective wisdom of the artist who knows that all beauty is transient, and that every adaptation, whether of book or life, carries both loss and renewal. To accept this truth is to live freely — to create, to share, and to endure without resentment.

So, my listener, take this teaching to heart: hope is a flame, not a leash. Nurture it, but do not bind it to your expectations. Whether you are a creator of stories, a builder of dreams, or simply a soul walking the road of life, learn the art of release. Create with passion, but let go without bitterness. Allow others to see your work, your love, your life — and accept that they will see it differently. For only then can your spirit remain unbroken. As Gayle Forman teaches, to hope without attachment is the highest freedom, and to create without fear of imperfection is the truest act of love.