No, No, No! I said, “I Didn’t Want to be a Chooch.”

My problem lies in reconciling my gross habits with my net income. 

~Errol Flynn

This is an exciting time in life; my family on the brink of a shift.

Most of it’s wonderful, but like any move from blue ribbon to better, there’s little reward without any stairs to climb.  

Sweet isn’t near as sweet if you’ve never known sour.

Some of the vinegar in the emigration to full time writer, is this long middling, when the idea of being a chooch frequently worms its way between my ears, lays eggs, then wiggles down my spine to settle where I sit. 

Psst… Writer Dad.

Sigh.  Yes, incessant voice inside my head?

Most readers don’t know random Italian slang.  You only got yours because you read the forward to Mario Puzo’s, “Fortunate Pilgrim.” (Not that you actually read the book.)

Oh, incessant voice.  Good point.

A chooch, according to Italians, is someone who allows their family to fully indulge in their eccentricities, even though they don’t lay a single crumb on the table. 

I’d rather have teeth breaking through the skin on the side of my face. 

I love writing.  It’s harder than breathing, but easier than doing the dishes. 

If I can carve out a living for myself, and my loved ones, by letting my fingers dance across these keys, then I’ll bow down and count myself as one of the lucky ones.  But I can’t stand the idea of pouring over piles of syllables, belaboring every single page and paragraph of a novel that might take another year, and designing rhymes that no one will ever enunciate, when there’s a stack of bills that need to be paid (and quickly). 

If I’m a writer, than my responsibility is to not only produce content that makes me smile, my family proud, and audience happy, but that also puts food in our tummies and fattens the college fund. 

I don’t want to be the guy who goes to his garage with three drunk buddies and plays off key oldies, mouthing off about one day getting a gig, while his family’s inside passing a tub of popcorn and saying, “Where’s Daddy? 

I want to write. 

I want to write chapter books for my children, and a love story for my wife; something funny and tragic for my mom, and maybe a western for my dad.  Perhaps I’ll pen something dark and quiet, cynical and sweet for my sister. 

I can’t wait to write a book on raising children or running a pre-school, and I’ve got an awesome idea for a sci-fi novel.  I’ll probably start on it as soon as I’m finished with the book being written right now. 

I don’t need a Costco sticker covering up the last letter in the title of my tome, but my time must amount to something. 

I just can’t stand the thought of being a chooch.

Writer Dad

Disclaimer: Daisy does not endorse this post. I have read it to her three times. One had this really hilarious ending that was far better than this one. But I digress. Daisy doesn’t think that I could ever be a Chooch, and poses a strong objection to the word, especially when used in relation to myself.

If you enjoyed my words, please subscribe.  I promise I’ll be back tomorrow.

If you liked that, you’ll probably love, “Here’s a Macbook, Go Make a Million,” “Sink or Swim,” or “Your Baby’s Born in the Rough Draft. You Raise it in the Rewrite.”

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