bell notificationshomepageloginedit profileclubsdmBox

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!

Practice writing like:

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

TJiat afternoon about five o'clock three Mexicans came into the room.

 

Mr. Wheeler counted out eight francs and left them on the table. He put on his coat and followed the porter onto the platform where the snow was falling.

 

They were seated in the boat, Nick in the stern, his father rowing. The sun was coming up over the hills. A bass jumped, making a circle in the water. Nick trailed his hand in the water. It felt warm in the sharp chill of the morning.

 

'Get away from me/ Manuel said. 'Get to hell away from me.'

 

begged everyone to kill him. He was a fat man, very brave, and a good officer, although addicted to fantastic shows. But that night he was caught in the wire, with a flare lighting him up and his bowels spilled out into the wire, so when they brought him in, alive, they had to cut him loose. Shoot me, Harry. For Christ sake shoot me. They had had an argument one time about our Lord never sending you anything you could not bear and someone's theory had been that meant that a certain time the pain passed you out automatically. But he had always remembered Williamson, that night. Nothing passed out Williamson until he gave him all his morphine tablets that he had always saved to use himself and then they did not work right away.

 

'Good. That is a sensible order couched in simple language and easily understood.'

 

'They're all gone except the Barone who is waiting for you. Your driver is asleep in the house.'

 

'Then let us have another Martini,' the girl said. 'You know I never drank a Martini until we met.'

 

'Yes. If Ettore says so. He loves to joke but he does not lie. Richard, what is a jerk? Tell me truly.'

 

The Gran Maestro held up two fingers as a man might do giving odds where he had credit, and all the betting was on the nod.

 

The two sharks closed together and as he saw the one nearest him open his jaws and sink them into the silver side of the fish, he raised the club high and brought it down heavy and slamming onto the top of the shark's broad head. He felt the rubbery solidity as the club came down. But he felt the rigidity of bone too and he struck the shark once more hard across the point of the nose as he slid down from the fish.

 

He made the fish fast to bow and stern and to the middle thwart. He was so big it was like lashing a much bigger skiff alongside. He cut a piece of line and tied the fish's lower jaw against his bill so his mouth would not open and they would sail as cleanly as possible. Then he stepped the mast and, with the stick that was his gaff and with his boom rigged, the patched sail drew, the boat began to move, and half lying in the stern he sailed south-west.

 

"Eighty-five is a lucky number," the old man said. "How would you like to see me bring one in that dressed out over a thousand pounds?"

 

"Yes," he said. "Yes," and shipped his oars without bumping the boat. He reached out for the line and held it softly between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. He felt no strain nor weight and he held the line lightly. Then it came again. This time it was a tentative pull, not solid nor heavy, and he knew exactly what it was. One hundred fathoms down a marlin was eating the sardines that covered the point and the shank of the hook where the hand-forged hook projected from the head of the small tuna.

 

"How old are you?" the old man asked the bird. "Is this your first trip?"

 

Trending!

 

Back to top