14. Taking my own medicine

There's a wee power struggle going on at the moment. Our youngest daughter, who is a brilliant story-teller, has been given the task of writing a short story. She doesn't do short.

We've been trying to head this off sooner rather than later – asking when her homework is due, when she intends to hand it in (after it's due, apparently), encouraging her to plan the ending, and the path from now to the ending.

Well, it's become a thing. In not so many words, she said it'll be done when it's done, leaving us wide open to a prolonged weekend of her writing at her desk when we want to be out and doing things in the Spring sunshine.

I have begged and cajoled her, and belatedly realised that I, too, can write a thousand words where 250 might do. So today I have given myself the constraint that I wished the teacher had given her.

Doing anything tersely is a challenge. I've learned to wrap objections into my process – to justify myself before anyone asks me to. I see the counter-point. I second guess myself. For example, whilst my motive is good – let's get outside, don't spend all weekend on it – I'm also painfully aware of quashing her creative instinct with arbitrary demands. The last thing I want to do is disapprove of her efforts.

Meanwhile, my daughter's downstairs on her laptop, ignoring me. I am so proud of her.

Another five words and I'll