How to Write (Apparently)

"I've been reading your blog," says Daughter accusingly.
"Oh?" I say, avoiding her narrowed eyes.
"Yes. And what I want to know is, are you going to write down everything we say and do?"
"I might," I say, edging away.
"Only, it's quite funny actually," she says. I glance at her nervously, wondering if this is some kind of trap. "Yeah, and I was thinking that you should make it into a book maybe."
"Oh, I don't think so," I say. "It would have to have a story arc, you know, a beginning-middle-end kind of plot that pulls it all together." I wave my arms around vaguely.
But Daughter is shaking her head. Teenagers always know more than their parents. It's a Law of Nature. "No, you don't need a plot," she tells me confidently. "None of the books I read have plots. You could write it like a diary sort of a story, so all you'd need to do is write what you're writing now, and just put the date above each bit."
"Sorry," I say, puzzled. "You say none of the books you read have plots? Do you mind me asking exactly what you are reading at the moment?"
This is a constant source of argument between us. Apparently all the books I recommend are "like, sooooo boring and you're always going on about books because you are a writer but you don't understand what I like".
But I am knocked off course this time by a big grin from Daughter who announces, "Well, at the moment we are reading Frankenstein in English. It's by this woman called Mary Shelley who ran off with this Percy Poetry Guy--"
"You mean Percy Shelley?" asks Husband, not even bothering to disguise the sarcasm in his voice.
"That's the one!" exclaims Daughter brightly, not even registering the sarcasm anyway. "So, this Mary Shelley, she's written this book about a man who makes a monster and the idea came from taking body parts from the people she had loved in real life."
"Urgh!" I say. "I don't think that's right."
"Yes," says Daughter, frowning at my interruption. "She had all these people in her life who died, including her children and her parents and pretty much everyone, and so they are who the monster is based on. And did you know that people always think the monster is called Frankenstein, but it's not. It's just Frankenstein's monster."
"Yes, I did know that," I say.
"Oh, well I bet you didn't know it wasn't really green," she says triumphantly.
"Oh," I say.
"So where is your copy of the book?" asks Husband. "Maybe you could read some now."
"No, I can't. It's at school. They keep it there and we only read bits and bobs in lessons," says Daughter.
Husband and I exchange dubious looks.
"So are you going to finish it this term?" Husband asks.
"No," says Daughter carelessly. "We're not going to read ALL of it. Just the important bits."
I raise my eyebrows and open my mouth to make a comment, but Daughter beats me to it, "So!" she says, holding up a finger to shut me up. "That just goes to show that it doesn't matter if a book has a plot or not, as you don't always read it all anyway. So you can write your blog as a book. Easy."
She shoots me a look of triumph, swivels on her heel and exits, stage left.
As is becoming the case more and more these days, Daughter has had the last word.