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Hannah lost her mother to breast cancer when she was twenty-six, before she had thought to ask the questions that daughters assume there will always be time to ask. That loss became the engine behind a pattern she recognizes running across her novels, including this one, published in 2001 when the grief was still relatively recent.
You’ll find that a theme in my books is trying to know your mother deeply and know her story. I lost my mom when I was 26. I am keenly aware that your mother has stories that you’re often too busy to listen to when you should.
Her mother also planted the specific seed of her writing life. The remark came early, before Hannah had published anything, and it shaped the direction she would take when she eventually left law.
My mom said ‘Don’t worry, honey. Don’t worry about your classes, you’re gonna be a writer anyway.’
Ruby Bridge, the daughter at the center of Summer Island, has spent years putting as much distance as possible between herself and her mother. The novel’s premise is, in effect, Hannah’s recurring question forced into a room with a locked door: what happens when you run out of time to stop running?
When Hannah has described the preoccupations that keep pulling her back to the same emotional territory, she frames them not as autobiography but as the subject matter that strikes her as most consequential. The relationships she names in this formulation are exactly the ones Summer Island puts under pressure.
I’m drawn to writing about the relationships that form the heart of women’s lives: motherhood, parenthood, friendships. These relationships define who we are and enrich our lives.
Hannah lives on an island near the San Juan Islands, the real geography that becomes Summer Island’s fictional one. Her explanation of how she handles setting makes clear that the choice to set the novel there was not merely convenient: she demands the same attention to place that she gives to people.
The settings are extremely important in my books. I really consider the setting to be another character in the book and I develop the images with as much care as I put into my characters. For me, the important thing is that my readers can really believe in the world I’ve created.
Beyond the particulars of Summer Island, she has described an affinity for coastal writing environments that goes deeper than preference, and it points to why the San Juan Islands are home territory rather than backdrop. This account comes from an interview recorded in the Pacific Northwest.
I’m an island girl... I find that I write best when I can see the water. [paraphrased from audio]
Her process begins with a detailed synopsis and heavy research, but she deliberately leaves room for the characters to redirect her once drafting starts. The cost she acknowledges here is real: many of her novels have required extensive rebuilding after the first pass.
I don’t outline my novels any more. Now, I come up with a very detailed story synopsis, do a ton of research on the various elements in the novel, and let the characters reveal themselves throughout the writing. It’s not a very good way, actually; it requires a LOT of rewrites and re-imagining of the story, but it works for me.
The method she uses to force characters into clarity is the same one that drives Summer Island’s plot: she removes all the conditions that allow her characters to stay comfortable and hidden. In the novel, a boat accident on the island strands Ruby with the mother she had planned to exploit for a story and leave.
I do sort of consciously put my characters through really terrible things. In doing that, they find out who they really are.
Even when a character is recognizably drawn from her own interior life, Hannah maintains a working distance between herself and the page. The distinction she draws here matters for Summer Island, where both Ruby and her mother Nora carry versions of guilt and self-concealment that Hannah has described as familiar territory.
All of my characters are completely fictional. That being said, most of them explore some aspect of my own personality or my own life.
Firefly Lane, published in 2008, seven years after Summer Island, returns to the same loss from a different angle. Hannah has been candid about what she was working through when she wrote it, and the remark clarifies why the mother-daughter dynamic keeps reappearing across her catalog: she has not finished with the subject.
The book Firefly Lane many years later, was really my way of dealing with the loss of my mother.
Summer Island, which came first, puts the reckoning inside a single compressed summer on the island. The two novels are not a series, but they form a pair of attempts at the same unresolved question.
Hannah’s novels tend to organize themselves around a question she is genuinely uncertain about at the outset. Summer Island’s central question is ethical in exactly the sense she describes: Ruby arrives on the island planning to trade her mother’s private pain for a magazine story, and the novel asks what that kind of bargain costs.
Every novel I write has a theme, and every novel has, on some level, a question that I’m interested in exploring. It’s often an ethical question.
When Firefly Lane reached a readership far wider than Hannah had expected, she drew a conclusion about her subject matter that applies as directly to Summer Island: the failures and repairs of female relationships are not niche material. The discovery informed how she understood what she had already been writing.
I learned with Firefly Lane that women’s experience is more universal than we think. We’re all living some version of the same life.