I sent my first postcard, as a six-year old, to Olympian Mary Lou Retton, who returned an autographed black and white photo of herself in a wide smile and chic haircut. “‘GOOD LUCK USA ‘84” it said.

There followed four relatively fallow decades for me as a postcard sender or receiver until last year, when I became enchanted by the infinite possibilities available in four by six inches.

I received at least five dozen and lost count of how many I stamped and disseminated. Once ubiquitous as correspondence, advertising and more, postcards in 2026 are exceptional: a bite-sized miracle that’s improved my relationships, my attention span, and my art and writing skills. And let me tell you about the surge of dopamine I routinely experience under the fluorescent lights of my local post office lobby.

Around the time I was embarking on my book tour last year, I had amassed several dozen vintage postcards from a lifetime of thrift-store forays: oddball 1960s hotel lobbies, corny Florida beaches, dusty national landmarks. They’re so inexpensive and so charming, I rarely resisted grabbing a few when I saw good ones. I’d occasionally tuck them into gift enclosures for friends but I used postcards sparingly compared to how fast I was accumulating them.

With so many on hand and an imminent plan to travel to 18 states, the only solution was to disburse them widely. It’s taken me until middle age to remember that holding on to things I love is almost never as much fun as sending them out into the world.

I stamped 40 postcards and wrote my own address on the back. Because I wanted to spend part of my time on the road documenting the trip, I also packed some postcard-sized watercolor paper & paint.

At bookstores, I arrayed the cards in front of readers while I signed books and encouraged people to take one and send me a note about anything on their minds. “Or take a card home and if you don’t write to me maybe it will remind you to write someone else in your life,” I always........

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