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Practice and improve writing style. Write like Ernest Hemingway

Improve your writing style by practicing using this free tool

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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Type these lines in the boxes below to practice and improve your writing style.

'Matador,' she said, shutting the door. 'My matador.'

 

'I'm quite sure of it,' I said, 'but you'd best go on board ship and not come ashore again for the rest of the day.'

 

The trumpeter, up under the roof, blew for the final act, and Manuel walked across the arena toward where, up in the dark boxes, the president must be.

 

'All right,' the gipsy said. His face was serious. He began to think about just what he would do.

 

'You don't know them? Sure you know them. What they call the muskrats.'

 

“Splendid. Wish he wouldn’t keep going off like a cat, though. Makes me nervous.”

 

Inside it smelled of fresh tanned leather and hot tar. A man was stencilling completed wine-skins. They hung from the roof in bunches. He took one down, blew it up, screwed the nozzle tight, and then jumped on it

 

I mistrust all frank and simple people, especially when their stories hold together, and I always had a suspicion that perhaps Robert Cohn had never been middleweight boxing champion, and that perhaps a horse had stepped on his face, or that maybe his mother had been frightened or seen something, or that he had, maybe, bumped into something as a young child, but I finally had somebody verify the story from Spider Kelly. Spider Kelly not only remembered Cohn. He had often wondered what had become of him.

 

“No, I can’t say I liked it. I think it’s a wonderful show.”

 

“He didn’t knock me out,” Mike said. “I just lay there.”

 

"I do not know," he said aloud. "I never had a bone spur."

 

The iridescent bubbles were beautiful. But they were the falsest thing in the sea and the old man loved to see the big sea turtles eating them. The turtles saw them, approached them from the front, then shut their eyes so they were completely carapaced and ate them filaments and all. The old man loved to see the turtles eat them and he loved to walk on them on the beach after a storm and hear them pop when he stepped on them with the horny soles of his feet.

 

The old man drank his coffee slowly. It was all he would have all day and he knew that he should take it. For a long time now eating had bored him and he never carried a lunch. He had a bottle of water in the bow of the skiff and that was all he needed for the day.

 

"I may not be as strong as I think," the old man said. "But I know many tricks and I have resolution."

 

Just then he felt a sudden banging and jerking on the line he held with his two hands. It was sharp and hard-feeling and heavy.

 

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