I used to be able to speak French—that is to say that I spoke it well enough to pass for a Quebecer in Paris. I picked it up in the Army (a six month stay at the Defense Language Institute will do that to a body) and used it almost every single day in my job. Sadly, once I got out of the Army and came back stateside I had a pretty tough time finding Francophones out Tacoma way and ended up losing nearly every scrap of Frenchiness the Army managed to cram into my head.
I find that writing shares a lot of similarities with speaking another language in a use-it-or-lose-it sense. Just like French, writing is something I’ve got to practice regularly else I lose whatever small headway I’ve made at becoming a better at it. For me, practicing regularly translates to doing it every day, no matter what. Be it fiction, a blog entry, commenting on other blogs, or whatever, I know that if I don’t pump some time into practicing, then my writing is going to start sucking worse than my French conversation skills. And I can guarantee that if that happens there won’t be a soul who will want to hear what I’ve got to say.
On a final note, I want to say thanks to The Other Me and the The Lit Nerd for following my bloggity blog. Thanks, folks! You guys rule! Please check them out by giving those links to their blogs the old clickeroo.
[the lovely French stereotype was found here]