Do you have a particular writing style? Or, do you try to emulate a writer you admire? I came across this site through a blog written by a friend of mine. It’s a site that analyzes your writing style from a snippet of your work that you submit. My friend submitted a few paragraphs of her work in progress, and they said she writes like H.P. Lovecraft.

Now, Yvonne has never read his work, so she couldn’t say how accurate their analysis is. I have never read his work either, so I’m just as clueless. Anyway, figuring I had nothing to lose, I decided to give it a try. I was bowled over with the result: I write like William Shakespeare! The Bard himself? Well, I love his work, studied him a lot in school, but write like him? No way! No one can. If you’re interested in knowing who you write like, here’s the link to the site – http://iwl.me/b/f0797b6c. And if you care to read the snippet that produced such a startling result, here it is:

The food was sumptuous, the service excellent and the ambience perfect. But his date seemed to have left the building. Not that she didn’t appear to enjoy her food. Her lobster thermidor was almost gone and her pina colada was half-way down. However, she’d barely said two words to him since they sat down to dinner, and she seemed to be avoiding his gaze. David was on the edge of despair. Had he slurped his soup? Dropped food on his shirt? Would she agree to go out with him again? Alarm shot through him. It was his mother. She didn’t like his mother!
He cleared his throat. “What do you think of my mother?”
“She’s adorable. I love her!”
Relieved, he smiled. “Mom has that effect on most people.”
Cicely nodded and stuck a forkful of lobster into her mouth.
“A dollar for your thoughts?”
Her gaze flickered to his face, then back down to her plate. “They’re about you.”
That jolted him and he sat up straighter. He had done something wrong. A sip of his wine might help to quiet his sudden unease. When he placed his glass down he said, “That’s very flattering. I hope they’re kind thoughts.”
She laid down her fork. “I’m thinking of a line in that song your mother and I sang this afternoon.”
David took another sip. “You all sang a lot of songs.”
She fixed him with a serious gaze. “Only two. The last one had a line that went, ‘When by his grace I shall look on his face,
There will be glory, be glory for me.’ “
“I didn’t pay much attention. But what does that have to do with me?”
“I’m wondering how you could have such a sweet, Christian woman for a mother and not be a Christian.”
David put down his glass and removed his napkin. He’d not slurped or spilled. She was mad at him because he wasn’t a Christian? He allowed some seconds to pass before he replied, “What makes you think I’m not a Christian?”
She hesitated. “Are you?” Before he could answer, she went on, “The first place you invited me to was a club. You drink beer and wine and I’ve never heard you say anything about church.”
He chuckled. A waitress pushing a dessert cart stopped at their table. He eyed the delicious-looking concoctions, then glanced at Cicely, but she shook her head. After the waitress moved on, David said, “I’ll tell you all about it on our way home.”

Leave a comment and let me know who you think you write like.

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