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Practice and improve writing style. Write like Ernest Hemingway

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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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'I am,' said Andrea, returning the lie. 'I must say I never felt better. You look extraordinarily well, yourself.'

 

'We'd have to take a few towns for them to respect our thinking.'

 

What's cheerful, portrait? You ought to know. You're smarter than I am, although you haven't been around as much.

 

'St Mark's square is where the pigeons are and where they have that big cathedral that looks sort of like a moving picture palace, isn't it?'

 

'I took a chance. We have both taken many. The gin was 3200 lire and is legitimate. The Campari was 800.'

 

Holding the rod far out toward the uprooted tree and sloshing backward in the current, Nick worked the trout, plunging, the rod bending alive, out of the danger of the weeds into the open river. Holding the rod, pumping alive against the current, Nick brought the trout in. He rushed, but always came, the spring of the rod yielding to the rushes, sometimes jerking under water, but always bringing him in. Nick eased downstream with the rushes. The rod above his head he led the trout over the net, then lifted.

 

'Well, then, as Wilson said, kill him and stop his roaring/

 

Zurito, sitting his horse, walking him toward the scene, not missing any detail, scowled.

 

'Never. I am completely without luck. Look, this cabron who shoots me just now. Can he shoot? No. The first shot he fires into nothing. The second is intercepted by a poor Russian. That would seem to be luck. What happens? He shoots me twice in the belly. He is a lucky man. I have no luck. He could not hit a horse if he were holding the stirrup. All luck. 5

 

San Siro wtis the swellest course I'd ever seen but the old man said it was a dog's life. Going back and forth between Mirafiore and San Siro and riding just about every day in the week with a train ride every other night.

 

When he sailed into the little harbour the lights of the Terrace were out and he knew everyone was in bed. The breeze had risen steadily and was blowing strongly now. It was quiet in the harbour though and he sailed up onto the little patch of shingle below the rocks. There was no one to help him so he pulled the boat up as far as he could. Then he stepped out and made her fast to a rock.

 

But I killed the shark that hit my fish, he thought. And he was the biggest dentuso that I have ever seen. And God knows that I have seen big ones.

 

When he thought that he knew that he was not being clear-headed and he thought he should chew some more of the dolphin. But I can't, he told himself. It is better to be light-headed than to lose your strength from nausea. And I know I cannot keep it if I eat it since my face was in it. I will keep it for an emergency until it goes bad. But it is too late to try for strength now through nourishment. You're stupid, he told himself. Eat the other flying fish.

 

I must let the first one get a good hold and hit him on the point of the nose or straight across the top of the head, he thought.

 

"I wish the boy were here and that I had some salt," he said aloud.

 

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