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Practice and improve writing style.

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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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'You don't want a nice Susser Tod sandwich do you Miss Renata?'

 

'You are a member now,' the Gran Maestro said. 'Por merito di guerra.'

 

'Maybe we better. Who gives a damn about the war anyway?'

 

But they don't hang themselves, he thought. They just have to go on putting papers under other people's doors that do not even hate them. It must be quite a difficult trade being an ex-Fascist. Maybe he is not an ex-Fascist, too. How do you know.

 

'As your physician. You didn't think I'd try to wind your clock, did you?'

 

'You mean all wrong. I know. It's all wrong. But I'll come back. I told you I'd come back. I'll come back right away/

 

The last time they played Mr. Fraser lay in his room with the door open and listened to the noisy, bad music and could not keep from thinking. When they wanted to know what he wished played, he asked for the 'Cucaracha', which has the sinister lightness and deftness of so many of the tunes men have gone to die to. They played noisily and with emotion. The tune was better than most of such tunes, to Mr. Frazer's mind, but the effect was all the same.

 

'I wish he would go home. I never get to bed before three o'clock. What kind of hour is that to go to bed?'

 

The other way was to climb steeply up to the edge of the woods and then go across the top of the hills through the pine woods, and then out to the edge of a meadow and down across this meadow to the bridge. There were birches along the stream and it was not big, but narrow, clear and fast, with pools where it had cut under the roots of the

 

Nick woke stiff and cramped. The sun was nearly down. His pack was heavy and the straps painful as he lifted it on. He leaned over with the pack on and picked up the leather rod-case and started out from the pine trees across the sweet fern swale, toward the river. He knew it could not be more than a mile.

 

The shark came in a rush and the old man hit him as he shut his jaws. He hit him solidly and from as high up as he could raise the club. This time he felt the bone at the base of the brain and he hit him again in the same place while the shark tore the meat loose sluggishly and slid down from the fish.

 

How simple it would be if I could make the line fast, he thought. But with one small lurch he could break it. I must cushion the pull of the line with my body and at all times be ready to give line with both hands.

 

He saw him first as a dark shadow that took so long to pass under the boat that he could not believe its length.

 

"I moved him," the old man said. "I moved him then."

 

"The fish is my friend too," he said aloud. "I have never seen or heard of such a fish. But I must kill him. I am glad we do not have to try to kill the stars."

 

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