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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.
“Do you always do what you like, Miss Beddingfeld?”
He was the kind of young man who recovers his faculties very quickly. He pulled himself to his feet and stood there swaying a little.
Pagett is straining at the leash to rejoin me in Jo’burg. I shall make an excuse of Mrs. Blair’s cases to keep him in Cape Town. I have written him that he must receive the cases and see to their safe disposal, as they contain rare curios of immense value.
I looked sharply over my shoulder. Silence. I moved on a pace or two. Again I heard that rustle. Still walking, I looked over my shoulder again. A man’s figure came out of the shadow. He saw that I saw him, and jumped forward, hard on my track.
“Good-morning, Gipsy girl, sit down here by me. You look as though you hadn’t slept well.”
He sat down in one of the big arm-chairs facing the couch. In a low voice Jane began her story.
“But what I don’t understand,” said the Prime-Minister suddenly, “is how that photograph came to be in Mr. Hersheimmer’s drawer?”
“What made you think he’d ceased to take any interest in the case?” asked Tommy curiously.
“Yes,” said Tuppence triumphantly. “But I shan’t tell you.”
Ten minutes later the two young men were seated in a first-class carriage en route for Chester.
“Yes. I’m looking for a friend of mine whom I thought might have walked this way.”
“We are at one then,” said Poirot, “for I, too, want to hang the criminal.”
The witness admitted that such might be the case, and Sir Ernest signified that he was satisfied.
CHAPTER VII. POIROT PAYS HIS DEBTS As we came out of the Stylites Arms, Poirot drew me aside by a gentle pressure of the arm. I understood his object. He was waiting for the Scotland Yard men.
“Mary”—his voice was very quiet now—“are you in love with this fellow Bauerstein?”