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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.
“Compatriots though we are, we will not speak Russian, I think,” she observed.
“God bless my soul, Pagett, the lady you met in Florence. There must have been a lady. Don’t tell me that you merely robbed a church or stabbed an Italian in the back because you didn’t like his face.”
“Now that the sea is behaving so nicely, I feel I should like to stay on it for ever and ever.”
“How well we shall know each other by that time,” said Mrs. Blair maliciously. “How long are you going to stay at the Falls, Sir Eustace?”
I heard him start after me, and then pause, and a word floated down the deck. I think it was a “witch”!
“She was wearing a white fox fur toque, sir, with a white spotted veil, and a blue frieze coat and skirt—the shade of blue they call electric.”
“No—leave it on the seat. I’ll put it up later. Here you are.”
“Well!” Poirot got up briskly. “That is all I can do here—except, monsieur, that I would ask you to tell me everything—but everything!”
“You’re right, Monsieur Poirot. I was sure of Rupert’s guilt until I found this letter. It unsettled me horribly.”
“I was looking, monsieur, for this.” Poirot withdrew from the trunk a coat and skirt of bright blue frieze, and a small toque of white fox fur.
“Mr. Opalsen’s compliments, and would you step upstairs.”
The second letter was couched in precisely the same terms, but the third was more explicit:
“Youse sure o’ dat, eh?” said the Italian, leering unpleasantly.
“You see,” continued Poirot, as we walked briskly through the wind and rain, “there was a little discrepancy. The doctor seemed to think the deceased was a Christian Scientist, and who could have given him that impression but Mrs. Maltravers? But to us she represented him as being in a grave state of apprehension about his own health. Again, why was she so taken aback by the reappearance of young Black? And lastly, although I know that convention decrees that a woman must make a decent pretence of mourning for her husband, I do not care for such heavily-rouged eyelids! You did not observe them, Hastings? No? As I always tell you, you see nothing!”
She clasped it to her breast with both hands. We crowded round.