Homepage
Login
Profile
BookClubs
dmBox
Practice and improve writing style. Write like Agatha Christie
Improve your writing style by practicing using this free tool
Practice makes perfect, sure, we all know that. But practice what?
If you do not have a good writing style, and you keep writing in that same style, then, it does not matter how much you write. At the end, you will still have that not so good writing style.
Here's how you improve
You practice writing in the style of popular authors. Slowly, but surely, your brain will start picking up that same wonderful writing style which readers are loving so much, and your own writing style will improve. Makes sense?
Its all about training your brain to form sentences in a different way than what you are normally used to.
The difference is the same as a trained boxer, verses a regular guy. Who do you think will win a fight if the two go at it?
Practice writing like professionals!
Practice writing what is already there in popular books, and soon, you yourself would be writing in a similar style, in a similar flow.
Train your brain to write like professionals!
Spend at least half an hour with this tool, practicing writing like professionals.
Practice and improve your writing style below
Below, I have some random texts from popular authors. All you have to do is, spend some time daily, and type these lines in the box below. And, eventually, your brain picks the writing style, and your own writing style improves!
Practice writing like:
- Abraham Bram Stoker
- Agatha Christie
- Arthur Conan Doyle
- Charles Dickens
- Ernest Hemingway
- Hg Wells
- Jane Austen
- Mark Twain
- Rudyard Kipling
Type these lines in the boxes below to practice and improve your writing style.
At last he roused himself, and opening the suitcase, took out some papers and magazines, then closed the suitcase again and endeavored to shove it under the opposite seat—without success. Some hidden obstacle resisted it. He shoved harder with rising impatience, but it still stuck out halfway into the carriage.
“Perhaps, perhaps,” murmured my friend. “Hastings, my hat. And the brush. So! My galoshes if it still rains! We must not undo the good work of that tisano. Au revoir, Japp!”
He let the window down again, changing his seat to one with its back to the engine. He pulled a pipe out of his pocket and lit it. For a little time he sat inactive, looking out into the night and smoking.
“But what I want to know is how you knew of the existence of this letter?”
“Yes, I believe Inspector Japp is here now if you would like to see him.”
“After all,” murmured Poirot, “it is possible that I shall not die this time.”
“Would it interest you, Hastings, to go down and hear what our visitor’s particular trouble is? Make him all my excuses.”
I wired the latest development to Poirot, and suggested returning to London and making inquiries at Selbourne’s Agency. Poirot’s reply was prompt:
“He seemed rather annoyed, but went off at once. It was about five minutes later that I heard the sound of raised voices. I ran out into the hall, and almost collided with Mrs. Middleton. Then we heard the shot. The gun-room door was locked on the inside, and we had to go round the house to the window. Of course that took some time, and the murderer had been able to get well away. My poor uncle”—her voice faltered—“had been shot through the head. I saw at once that he was dead, and I sent Mrs. Middleton for the police straight away. I was careful to touch nothing in the room but to leave it exactly as I found it.”
The bullet had been extracted and was proved to have been fired from a revolver identical in size to the one held by the police. Furthermore, Mr. Havering’s movements on the night in question had been checked and verified, and it was proved beyond doubt that he had actually arrived in London by the train in question. And thirdly, a sensational development had occurred. A city gentleman, living at Ealing, on crossing Haven Green to get to the District Railway station that morning, had observed a brown paper parcel stuck between the railings. Opening it, he found that it contained a revolver. He handed the parcel over to the local police station, and before night it was proved to be the one we were in search of, the fellow to that given us by Mrs. Havering. One bullet had been fired from it.
“You have made rather a hog of yourself! So have I for that matter, but I flatter myself that my choice of dishes was more judicious than yours. Two coffees.” (This was to the waiter.) “One Turkish, one French.”
Tuppence shook her head. She was doubtful as to how long she could sustain this illusion, but she realized the importance of not dragging an unknown Rita into it.
And as briefly and succinctly as possible he detailed the experiences of the last few days.
“A nurse’s kit! Gee whiz! I must be going to Colney Hatch! I could swear I’ve seen Jane in a nurse’s cap too. And that’s plumb impossible! No, by gum, I’ve got it! It was her I saw talking to Whittington at that nursing home in Bournemouth. She wasn’t a patient there! She was a nurse!”
Tuppence, for her part, sat bolt upright—much in the attitude of a watchful terrier on guard. In spite of herself she was nervous. Her eyes flashed continually from one window to the other. She noted the exact position of the communication cord. What it was that she feared, she would have been hard put to it to say. But in her own mind she was far from feeling the confidence displayed in her words. Not that she disbelieved in Tommy, but occasionally she was shaken with doubts as to whether anyone so simple and honest as he was could ever be a match for the fiendish subtlety of the arch-criminal.