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Practice and improve writing style. Write like Agatha Christie

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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!

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“Poirot, what have you done about finding Bel—I mean Dulcie?”

 

“But you are wonderful—magnificent! You are the greatest detective in the world.”

 

“I am at your disposal, M. le juge. Ask me any questions you please.”

 

“Yes, yes,” she replied impatiently. “But we cannot waste time on regrets. We must find something to save him. He is innocent, of course, but that will not help him with a man like Giraud who has his reputation to think of. He must arrest some one, and that some one will be Jack.”

 

We passed through Amiens. The name awakened many memories. My companion seemed to have an intuitive knowledge of what was in my mind.

 

“Very clever,” interpolated the Count approvingly.

 

“As you know, I am a teetotaller, Sir Eustace.”

 

“I don’t expect I shall be,” I answered candidly. “But there’s no harm in hearing.”

 

Sir Eustace gave the order. The men filed out, and Harry shot the bolt across the door behind them.

 

Hairpins were necessities of life with which Harry had not been able to provide me, and my hair, straight and black, hung to my knees. I sat, my chin on my hands, lost in meditation. I felt rather than saw Harry looking at me.

 

“I shall try and get rid of it. I could never live here again.”

 

“I think not. There is something peculiarly elusive about that housekeeper—don’t you think so? It struck me at once.”

 

“My uncle, Mr. Harrington Pace (as you may know, my mother was a Miss Pace of New York), has for the last three years made his home with us. He never got on well with my father, or my elder brother, and I suspect that my being somewhat of a prodigal son myself rather increased than diminished his affection toward me. Of course, I am a poor man, and my uncle was a rich one—in other words, he paid the piper! But though exacting in many ways, he was not really hard to get on with, and we all three lived very harmoniously together.

 

“I told Mr. Pace, and he seemed puzzled, like, but he said to the mistress: ‘Excuse me, Zoe, while I just see what this fellow wants.’ He went off to the gun-room, and I went back to the kitchen, but after a while I heard loud voices, as if they were quarreling, and I came out into the hall. At the same time, the mistress she comes out too, and just then there was a shot and then a dreadful silence. We both ran to the gun-room door, but it was locked, and we had to go round to the window. It was open, and there inside was Mr. Pace, all shot and bleeding.”

 

“Oh, no, that was not her part. Her part was what you have just mentioned, to provide an alibi for Mrs. Havering at the moment the shot was fired. And no one will ever find her, mon ami, because she does not exist! ‘There’s no sech person,’ as your so great Shakespeare says.”

 

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