Rob from the cradle.

That's the first suggestion of the writing work book I'm trying to use to make me into: An Writer......dun, dun, duuunnn. 

But what if you can't remember your cradle?  

Make it up, you say.  That is what writers are supposed to do, you say. But then, if I did that, it wouldn't really be my cradle would it, and it's not robbing either.

Washout.

The next task encourages me to: 'Rob the grave.  Look into the lives of your ancestors and tell their story.'  Yes, this is more like it... I can imagine a tonne of Irish peasants grubbing around in the leavings of their 'betters' or hoards of hairy Scots ranging the highlands waiting to cut Redcoats' throats - REMEMBER CULLODEN!  Hmn, but I live on the South Coast and have the same accent as most upper working /lower middle class English people of my era, yes that one, the one you couldn't place if you tried.  I've never been to Ireland and have scant knowledge of my Irish ancestry.  If only it were that straighforward anyway - I'm such an anglo/celtic blancmange that any story pertaining to be from my Irish or Scottish heritage wouldn't ring true and would, at worst, sound desperate, as if I'm not happy with my mongrel gene pool and want to cling on to a heritage, any heritage, that might give me a single identity.  

I'm not interested in being anything other than I am: a bit hither and yon.

Well, that's a non starter too, then. Let's see what the next task is tomorrow, eh?