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Practice and improve writing style. Write like Mark Twain

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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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Type these lines in the boxes below to practice and improve your writing style.

I just knowed how it would be; I just expected it. I didn’t know nothing to do; and if I had I couldn’t a done it, because that nigger busted in and says:

 

I went right along, not fixing up any particular plan, but just trusting to Providence to put the right words in my mouth when the time come; for I’d noticed that Providence always did put the right words in my mouth if I left it alone.

 

Boggs rode up before the biggest store in town, and bent his head down so he could see under the curtain of the awning and yells:

 

So the duke he told him all about who Romeo was and who Juliet was, and said he was used to being Romeo, so the king could be Juliet.

 

“Good!” says the old gentleman. “Now, what you did see on his breast was a small dim P, and a B (which is an initial he dropped when he was young), and a W, with dashes between them, so: P—B—W”—and he marked them that way on a piece of paper. “Come, ain’t that what you saw?”

 

“Run away! Well, you would be a nice old slouch of a hermit. You’d be a disgrace.”

 

“Who cares!” said Tom. “Nobody wants you to. Go ’long home and get laughed at. Oh, you’re a nice pirate. Huck and me ain’t crybabies. We’ll stay, won’t we, Huck? Let him go if he wants to. I reckon we can get along without him, per’aps.”

 

“All right. It’s a mighty small tick, anyway.”

 

Tom was introduced to the Judge; but his tongue was tied, his breath would hardly come, his heart quaked—partly because of the awful greatness of the man, but mainly because he was her parent. He would have liked to fall down and worship him, if it were in the dark. The Judge put his hand on Tom’s head and called him a fine little man, and asked him what his name was. The boy stammered, gasped, and got it out:

 

It weighed about fifty pounds. Tom could lift it, after an awkward fashion, but could not carry it conveniently.

 

He hurried away, leaving the prisoner in the grip of the halberdiers.

 

“It is true it is most wonderful—but it is no more than our lord the King likewise can do.”  This remark, and this reference to himself as still the King, saddened Tom Canty, and he felt his hopes crumbling from under him.  "These are not proofs,” added the Protector.

 

Bet and Nan were fifteen years old—twins.  They were good-hearted girls, unclean, clothed in rags, and profoundly ignorant.  Their mother was like them.  But the father and the grandmother were a couple of fiends.  They got drunk whenever they could; then they fought each other or anybody else who came in the way; they cursed and swore always, drunk or sober; John Canty was a thief, and his mother a beggar.  They made beggars of the children, but failed to make thieves of them.  Among, but not of, the dreadful rabble that inhabited the house, was a good old priest whom the King had turned out of house and home with a pension of a few farthings, and he used to get the children aside and teach them right ways secretly. Father Andrew also taught Tom a little Latin, and how to read and write; and would have done the same with the girls, but they were afraid of the jeers of their friends, who could not have endured such a queer accomplishment in them.

 

The Lord St. John made reverence and stood aside.  Tom replied resignedly—

 

But Hugh waved him back, gravely, and said to the lady—

 

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