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.
“No. But it was strange that she never heard a sound, sleeping next door; whereas Mrs. Cavendish, in the other wing of the building, distinctly heard the table fall.”
“Come,” he said, “now to examine the coffee-cups!”
“Oh, Lawrence! No, I don’t think so. He’s always a nervous chap.”
“On top of the wardrobe.” Then she hurriedly left the room.
I stared at him. Surely the war had affected the little man’s brain. He was carefully engaged in brushing his coat before putting it on, and seemed wholly engrossed in the task.
“What are you doing with my trunk?” I turned to see that the maid, Jane Mason, had just entered the room.
Dear Sir: I shall be obliged if you will call upon me at your earliest convenience. Yours faithfully, Ebenezer Halliday. The connection was not clear to my mind, and I looked inquiringly at Poirot. For answer he took up the newspaper and read aloud:
“I think,” he said gently, “that I can find Narky’s pal for you, all right.”
Doors banged; a stentorian voice shouted: “Plymouth only. Change for Torquay. Plymouth next stop.” Then a whistle blew, and the train drew slowly out of the station.
“One hundred thousand dollars’ worth of jewelry is a very good motive for anyone. No, the question to my mind is: why kill her? Why not simply steal the jewels? She would not prosecute.”
“Can we? Can I get a photograph of it, do you think?”
“There’s something more, though,” he insisted. “Miss Beddingfeld got the cabin, but this morning I saw Chichester coming out of it in a furtive sort of way.”
A whistle sounded. Sir Eustace picked up the tube, listened for a minute or two, then answered:
“That’s it! Where the murder took place. But perhaps you wouldn’t like——”
“What do you torment me for? Why are you mocking at me? Why do you say that—laughing into your hair?”
