Introduction: Bashful No More

When my mother was six years old, she often pretended she was a horse. Painfully shy, she preferred galloping around on "four" legs to the ordeal of talking to strangers on two. The Germans were bombing London and southern England at the time, a source of terror for many children, and my grandparents—concerned about her safety—heightened her anxiety by sending her off to boarding school. Once there, my mother would cavort outside for hours. When that wasn't feasible, she withdrew to a practice room and played the piano with quiet intensity.

No...