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.
Come at once. Uncle Harrington murdered last night. Bring good detective if you can, but do come.
“Ah, yes—I was going to ask you what you thought about that beard?”
“He’s the goods, M. Poirot! If he says so, there’s something in it. And I hardly noticed the woman! I don’t know that I can go so far as arresting her, but I’ll have her watched. We’ll go up right away and take another look at her.”
All this I added to my report. A wire from Poirot arrived while I was at breakfast the following morning:
We unlatched the gate and were walking up the narrow path to the oak door when a familiar figure emerged and came to meet us.
“No, M. Poirot, it is an affair of the golf course. It shows that there is here to be a ‘bunkair,’ as you call it.”
“That’s real nice of you. I’ll tell her what you say. But I don’t fancy we’ll meet again. You’ve been very good to me on the journey, especially after I cheeked you as I did. But what your face expressed first thing is quite true. I’m not your kind. And that brings trouble—I know that well enough. …”
“Poirot,” I said, “do you remember how we arrived here that first day? And were met by the news of M. Renauld’s murder?”
“Ah, that reminds me of another point,” said M. Hautet. “Did M. Renauld take you into his confidence at all as to the dispositions of his will?”
Though slightly surprised at the request, Mrs. Renauld held them out to him. Round each of them was a cruel red mark where the cords had bitten into the flesh. As he examined them, I fancied that a momentary flicker of excitement I had seen in his eyes disappeared.
“What in hell are you doing here?” he demanded, staring.
“It was not your master, Mr. Carrington, by any chance?”
“And how are you, monsieur? No bad feeling between us, though we have got our different ways of looking at things. How are the ‘little gray cells,’ eh? Going strong?”
“Old chap’s getting on in years,” he observed beneath his breath to me. “That wont do for us young folk,” he said aloud.
“Is there nothing to account for your daughter’s sudden change of plan?”
