Homepage
Login
Profile
BookClubs
dmBox
Practice and improve writing style. Write like Rudyard Kipling
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.
Wild Dog lifted up his wild nose and smelled the smell of roast mutton, and said, ‘I will go up and see and look, and say; for I think it is good. Cat, come with me.’
‘Now watch,’ said the Zebra and the Giraffe. ‘This is the way it’s done. One—two—three! And where’s your breakfast?’
Then said Baviaan, ‘The game has gone into other spots; and my advice to you, Leopard, is to go into other spots as soon as you can.’
The Stranger-man (and he was a Tewara) didn’t say anything, So Taffy put up her little hand and pulled at the beautiful bead and seed and shark-tooth necklace round his neck.
‘Kun?’ said All-the-Elephant-there-was, meaning, ‘Is this right?’
Akela, the grim old wolf who had never asked for mercy in his life, gave one piteous look at Mowgli as the boy stood all naked, his long black hair tossing over his shoulders in the light of the blazing branch that made the shadows jump and quiver.
Little Toomai stared again and again. The clearing, as he remembered it, had grown in the night. More trees stood in the middle of it, but the undergrowth and the jungle grass at the sides had been rolled back. Little Toomai stared once more. Now he understood the trampling. The elephants had stamped out more room—had stamped the thick grass and juicy cane to trash, the trash into slivers, the slivers into tiny fibers, and the fibers into hard earth.
“Then why didn’t you stay and carry baggage for the 39th Native Infantry, instead of running all round the camp?” said the mule.
“It is very lucky for us that we haven’t all got to fight in the same way,” said the troop-horse.
Nagaina saw that she had lost her chance of killing Teddy, and the egg lay between Rikki-tikki’s paws. “Give me the egg, Rikki-tikki. Give me the last of my eggs, and I will go away and never come back,” she said, lowering her hood.
The quick-spread ears of the deer caught the last sentence, and a frightened whisper ran along the ranks. “The Truce! Remember the Truce!”
“I will look,” said he, “as I did in the old days, and I will see how far the Man-Pack has changed.”
Messua said nothing, but it was at her wounds that Mowgli looked, and they heard him grit his teeth when he saw the blood.
Kadlu was an Inuit,—what you call an Esquimau,—and his tribe, some thirty persons all told, belonged to the Tununirmiut—“the country lying at the back of something.” In the maps that desolate coast is written Navy Board Inlet, but the Inuit name is best, because the country lies at the very back of everything in the world. For nine months of the year there is only ice and snow, and gale after gale, with a cold that no one can realise who has never seen the thermometer even at zero. For six months of those nine it is dark; and that is what makes it so horrible. In the three months of the summer it only freezes every other day and every night, and then the snow begins to weep off on the southerly slopes, and a few ground-willows put out their woolly buds, a tiny stonecrop or so makes believe to blossom, beaches of fine gravel and rounded stones run down to the open sea, and polished boulders and streaked rocks lift up above the granulated snow. But all that is gone in a few weeks, and the wild winter locks down again on the land; while at sea the ice tears up and down the offing, jamming and ramming, and splitting and hitting, and pounding and grounding, till it all freezes together, ten feet thick, from the land outward to deep water.
He could not resist the temptation of stealing across the reeds to Mysa and pricking him with the point of his knife. The great dripping bull broke out of his wallow like a shell exploding, while Mowgli laughed till he sat down.