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Practice and improve writing style. Write like Agatha Christie

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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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“Not to me. No doubt I am very dense, but I cannot see what the proximity of the coast has got to do with the murder of Mrs. Inglethorp.”

 

“Like a good detective story myself,” remarked Miss Howard. “Lots of nonsense written, though. Criminal discovered in last chapter. Everyone dumbfounded. Real crime—you’d know at once.”

 

“Yes,” she said quietly, “that was not Evelyn Howard who spoke!” She flung her head up proudly. “This is Evelyn Howard! And she is on the side of Justice! Let the cost be what it may.” And with these words, she walked firmly out of the room.

 

I drew close to him, while John and the lawyer were debating the question of going through Mrs. Inglethorp’s papers.

 

“He said twice: ‘That alters everything.’ And I’ve been thinking. You know Inglethorp said he had put down the coffee in the hall? Well, it was just then that Bauerstein arrived. Isn’t it possible that, as Inglethorp brought him through the hall, the doctor dropped something into the coffee in passing?”

 

“You are in error. See you not that while the ink of the signature is nearly black, that of the postscript is quite pale?”

 

2An Appeal for Help It was five minutes past nine when I entered our joint sitting-room for breakfast on the following morning.

 

“By Jove, Poirot,” I exclaimed, “did you see that young goddess.”

 

The show was wearisome beyond words—or perhaps it was only my mood that made it seem so. Japanese families balanced themselves precariously, would-be fashionable men, in greenish evening dress and exquisitely slicked hair, reeled off society patter and danced marvellously, stout prima donnas sang at the top of the human register, a comic comedian endeavoured to be Mr. George Robey and failed signally.

 

“That reminds me. I have here a letter for you, M. Poirot. Let me see, where did I put it?”

 

“He’s not a Jap,” I ejaculated in a whisper to Poirot.

 

“The cat,” declaimed Poirot, “was worshipped by the ancient Egyptians. It is still regarded as a symbol of good luck if a black cat crosses your path. This cat crossed your path to-night, Japp. To speak of the interior of any animal or any person is not, I know, considered polite in England. But the interior of this cat is perfectly delicate. I refer to the lining.”

 

Baker scratched his head, but his wife was quicker.

 

“I congratulate you, old fellow! They have told you the hiding-place? But, look here, you must wire to France at once. You’ll be too late if you go yourself.”

 

“It was Dickens,” I murmured, unable to suppress a smile. “But what do you mean, Poirot?”

 

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