But a lifetime of self-effacement takes a lot of breaking down. I became a troublemaker again, at least in certain circumstances. My instinct to protect my child brought out my confrontational streak. The implication was clear: if I showed my true self, if I failed to conform to her expectations, if I spoke out about my politics – in short, if I was difficult – then something dreadful would happen.īut in spite of this, somehow my voice was coming to life. A grande dame in the old style, she took me in hand in a manner that brooked no refusal: decided what I should wear, what I should say, what I should write next and how best to keep out of trouble. No more than was directed at any other successful woman, but enough to help confirm the voices of my childhood: that when you’re a woman, physical appearance is the first thing people notice and that no one wants you to be loud, or flippant, or opinionated. When my third book became unexpectedly successful, I was suddenly under more scrutiny than I’d ever known before. For a time, I forgot what it felt like to be myself, except in the safe space of the page, free from scrutiny and judgment.

I was already more than self-conscious about the effect my appearance had on others, and did my best to mitigate this by hiding behind a curtain of hair. I became self-conscious about my voice and its effect on others. And so I grew up believing that silence was a virtue. When I called him out, I acquired the additional label of “troublemaker”.

At school I was labelled “dogmatic” by a teacher who liked to stare down my blouse during lessons.

Joanne harris author