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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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“There—have I set it forth correctly?  Should not I be able to set it forth correctly before the judge, if occasion required?”

 

“Oh, jest not, palter not, delay not!—I am worn, I am wounded, I can bear no more.  Take me to the king my father, and he will make thee rich beyond thy wildest dreams.  Believe me, man, believe me!—I speak no lie, but only the truth!—put forth thy hand and save me!  I am indeed the Prince of Wales!”

 

A shudder shook the boy’s frame, and his face blenched.  Then he struggled again to free himself—turning and twisting himself this way and that; tugging frantically, fiercely, desperately—but uselessly—to burst his fetters; and all the while the old ogre smiled down upon him, and nodded his head, and placidly whetted his knife; mumbling, from time to time, “The moments are precious, they are few and precious—pray the prayer for the dying!”

 

Then immediately Hugo began to moan, and groan, and roll his eyes, and reel and totter about; and when the stranger was close at hand, down he sprawled before him, with a shriek, and began to writhe and wallow in the dirt, in seeming agony.

 

“God be thanked, his infirmity is spent!  This is no weakling, but a king.  He hath borne himself like to his own father.”

 

Presently he said he must go away on an errand. But we could not bear the thought of it, and clung to him, and pleaded with him to stay; and that pleased him, and he said so, and said he would not go yet, but would wait a little while and we would sit down and talk a few minutes longer; and he told us Satan was only his real name, and he was to be known by it to us alone, but he had chosen another one to be called by in the presence of others; just a common one, such as people have—Philip Traum.

 

On my road home I came upon Satan, and reproached him with deceiving me with that lie. He was not embarrassed, but said, quite simply and composedly:

 

“I can believe it. To restore his good name will have that effect.”

 

“Valuable? Heavens! lad, it is the one thing that lifts man above the beasts that perish and makes him heir to immortality!”

 

“I am sorry,” she answered, “but he can't. To punish him further, his father doesn't allow him to go out of the house to-day.”

 

It is falling now; it will still be falling when all these things shall have sunk down the afternoon of history, and the twilight of tradition, and been swallowed up in the thick night of oblivion. Has everything a purpose and a mission? Did this drop fall patiently during five thousand years to be ready for this flitting human insect’s need? and has it another important object to accomplish ten thousand years to come? No matter. It is many and many a year since the hapless half-breed scooped out the stone to catch the priceless drops, but to this day the tourist stares longest at that pathetic stone and that slow-dropping water when he comes to see the wonders of McDougal’s cave. Injun Joe’s cup stands first in the list of the cavern’s marvels; even “Aladdin’s Palace” cannot rival it.

 

“Huck, it was awful! I tried two of the keys, just as soft as I could; but they seemed to make such a power of racket that I couldn’t hardly get my breath I was so scared. They wouldn’t turn in the lock, either. Well, without noticing what I was doing, I took hold of the knob, and open comes the door! It warn’t locked! I hopped in, and shook off the towel, and, Great Caesar’s Ghost!”

 

“Well, I don’t know, Huck, my boy. I don’t know about that. Ain’t you and the widow good friends?”

 

“And I dreamt that Joe Harper’s mother was here.”

 

Tom joined the mob of skylarking scholars outside. In a few moments the master arrived and school “took in.” Tom did not feel a strong interest in his studies. Every time he stole a glance at the girls’ side of the room Becky’s face troubled him. Considering all things, he did not want to pity her, and yet it was all he could do to help it. He could get up no exultation that was really worthy the name. Presently the spelling-book discovery was made, and Tom’s mind was entirely full of his own matters for a while after that. Becky roused up from her lethargy of distress and showed good interest in the proceedings. She did not expect that Tom could get out of his trouble by denying that he spilt the ink on the book himself; and she was right. The denial only seemed to make the thing worse for Tom. Becky supposed she would be glad of that, and she tried to believe she was glad of it, but she found she was not certain. When the worst came to the worst, she had an impulse to get up and tell on Alfred Temple, but she made an effort and forced herself to keep still—because, said she to herself, “he’ll tell about me tearing the picture sure. I wouldn’t say a word, not to save his life!”

 

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