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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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'You can think about it,' the Colonel said. 'I'm talking true.'

 

'No. Give it to me when we have lunch before you go.'

 

You know how, he said to himself, reading the ads. in the back of the paper. You've put it on the line enough times. It isn't crazy or morbid. She just wanted to put it on the line. It was a good thing it was me, he thought.

 

Old army boy, the Colonel thought, before he hit him. Sea lawyer. Knows all his rights.

 

'Portrait,' he said. 'Boy or daughter or my one true love or whatever it is; you know what it is, portrait.'

 

'You can call me Alice,' the big whore said and then she began to shake again.

 

His father had summed up the whole matter by stating that masturbation produced blindness, insanity, and death, while a man who went with prostitutes would contract hideous venereal diseases and that the thing to do was to keep your hands off of people. On the other hand his father had the finest pair of eyes he had ever seen and Nick had loved him very much and for a long time. Now, knowing how it had all been, even remembering the earliest times before things had gone badly was not good remembering. If he wrote it he could get rid of it. He had gotten rid of many things by writing them. But it was still too early for that. There were still too many people. So he decided to think of something else. There was nothing to do about his father and he had thought it all through many times. The handsome job the undertaker had done on his father's face had not blurred in his mind and all the rest of it was quite clear, including the responsibilities. He had complimented the undertaker. The undertaker had not been both proud and smugly pleased. But it was not the undertaker that had given him that last face. The undertaker had only made certain dashingly executed repairs of doubtful artistic merit. The face had been making itself and being made for a long time. It had modelled fast in the last three years. It was a good story but there were still too many people alive for him to write it. a *

 

WHEN his father died he was only a kid and his manager buried him perpetually. That is, so he would have the plot permanently. But when his mother died his manager thought they might not always be so hot on each other. They were sweethearts; sure he's a queen, didn't you know that, of course he is. So he just buried her for five years.

 

'I don't want to go in there,' said Macomber. It was out before he knew he'd said it.

 

'I wish we'd never come,' the woman said. She was looking at him holding the glass and biting her lip. 'You never would have gotten anything like this in Paris. You

 

“Oh, hell!” Bill said. “I’m sorry, fella.”

 

“One of them’s Charley Blackman, from Chicago,” Bill said.

 

I looked at it. The address was: “Barnes, Burguete.”

 

“I’m going over to the hotel,” I said. Then I heard them talking about me.

 

“Yes. He should be back. You know he’s extraordinary about buying champagne. It means any amount to him.”

 

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