Harriet Hates Lemonade follows a rule-loving widow who stumbles into her neighbor’s dangerous marriage, where she’s forced to confront the emotional abuse she once called love. What was the inspiration for the setup of your story?

The inspiration for the setup came from the idea of a forced collision between two very different kinds of isolation.  Harriet’s isolation appears to be self-inflicted, with her rules and rigid ideas of how life should be lived, and Robyn’s isolation is imposed upon her by her controlling, abusive husband. I wanted to take a woman like Harriet, who uses rules and rigidity as a fortress to keep the world at a safe distance, and literally trip her up. The broken ankle caused by a neighbor’s dog is the physical catalyst, but the true setup is Harriet stumbling into a reality she can’t ignore, where she is forced to get out of her comfort zone and become involved in her neighbor’s messy life.

As Harriet begins to peer into the cracks of Robyn’s life, she stops seeing a neighbor in trouble and starts seeing a mirror. I wanted to explore that terrifying moment of cognitive dissonance, where you try to help someone else escape a dangerous situation, only to realize your own relationship was built on the same foundation of control and manipulation. Having experienced the way an abuser’s voice can rewrite your own thoughts, I wanted the setup to be a slow-motion realization. Harriet doesn’t just stumble into Robyn’s marriage; she stumbles into the truth about her own marriage, and she finally has to admit that the rules she thought were protecting her were actually confining and isolating her. I wanted to show that Harriet’s prickly exterior isn’t her personality. It’s a learned survival mechanism from decades of being told she was inadequate. Her journey is about unlearning those lies and reclaiming her own voice.

Harriet is sharp, judgmental, and often difficult—yet deeply compelling. What drew you to writing a protagonist like her?

I’ve always loved quirky, curmudgeonly, initially unlikeable women in literature, characters like Eleanor Oliphant or Olive Kitteridge, who refuse to cushion their opinions to spare anyone’s feelings. With Harriet, I wanted to find that sweet spot where a character is grumpy and rigid, yet still hilarious and human.

Initially, she came to me in snippets, inspired by real-life encounters with high-drama neighbors and overzealous HOA members I met while living in a perfectly manicured neighborhood in Bozeman. But as I dug deeper into her history, I realized that her judgment was actually a shield. She uses rules and high standards to create a sense of safety in a world that has been unkind to her. I loved the challenge of making a woman who can be quite awful into someone the reader would ultimately want to hug. Once I understood her trauma and what made her tick, Harriet took the wheel and started telling the story to me.

Scenes like the grocery bag mix-up or the off-leash dog crusade are comedic, but also revealing. How do you see humor functioning in Harriet’s emotional armor?

Humor is the release valve for both Harriet and the reader. For Harriet, her crusades against neighborhood minor offenses, like off-leash dogs or decorations left up too long, are her way of exerting control when she feels powerless. The humor lies in the absurdity of her rigidity. There’s something inherently funny about the contrast between a perfectly manicured lawn and the high-stakes battle Harriet is willing to wage over it.

But as a writer, the humor is also a tool. It allows me to lead the reader into very dark, heavy territory, like the domestic violence Robyn is facing, without the story feeling like a lecture or a pamphlet. By letting the reader laugh at the grocery bag mix-up or the DNA testing for dog poop suggestion, I’m building a bridge of empathy. The humor allows the reader to take a breath between the heavy moments in the novel. But then, it makes the heavy moments hit harder for two reasons: it fosters a deep empathy for Harriet that makes you truly invested in her, while simultaneously lowering your defenses so the heavy moments hit even harder.

If Harriet could speak to readers directly at the end of the novel, what do you think she would say?

I think she’d start with a huff and a comment about the font utilized in the book, but then she’d get to the heart of it. She’d tell readers that being self-sufficient is a lonely way to live and that the rules won’t actually save you. She’d say that she spent so many years thinking that if she just kept her house tidy and her mouth shut, she was safe, but she wasn’t. She was just alone. She would urge people to invest in their friends, their neighbors, their families. She’d tell readers that getting involved is messy, butting in is risky, and you’ll probably get some dirt on your shoes, but it’s the only thing that really matters. Finally, she’d tell readers to pick up after their dogs, but she’d say it with a wink and a smile.

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