I write like... (WARNING: sexplicit language, plus crimes against it!)
ConversesOff-topic
Afegeix-te a LibraryThing per participar.
1LolaWalser
HOW could I resist, with a result like this:
I write like
James Joyce
And--YES!--my sample text, I WILL show you it! YES, yes I said, YES I WILL, yes....!
DISCLAIMER: Contrary to the fabulous evidence of this paragraph, I am not, modestly, a writer. Please don't shower me with requests to give you the rest of the story. This paragraph was committed by way of congratulating a friend (whose last name happens not to be a million miles away from "Brimstone") on his 55th birthday, which he attained and survived in spanking good health.
May the same be true for you!
I write likeJames Joyce
I Write Like. Analyze your writing!
And--YES!--my sample text, I WILL show you it! YES, yes I said, YES I WILL, yes....!
Her naked bottom bloomed in front of his eyes like a full moon peeping through the open window, like a giant waterlily floating on a moonlit pond, like a bun royale rising from the oven in a cloud of its own perfume. Mr. Brimstone froze for a tremendous moment. His narrow chest roiled with unfamiliar emotion, beads of sweat broke out on his high scholarly forehead. His raised arm trembled, shook, convulsed--and came down like a judge's gavel: smack!--cracked the hand against the tender arse. And almost bounced, so elastic was the chastised object. Billy yelped, gasped, and wriggled, setting her ample rump a-jiggle. Mr. Brimstone's trousers evinced a pull in the front--did the wench snag on his buttons? Irate, he raised the arm again, brought it down again. Oh, what a rich, resonant sound, how righteously delicious: smack! A smaller yelp this time, and something like a sniffle… Mr. Brimstone's left hand groped aside to close the girl's mouth, in a stern admonishment that she was not to weep--what if they were heard in the anteroom?--but he fumbled and touched a breast instead, a tit round and ripe like a prize peach; he groped, she squirmed, and out it fell into his hand like alms into a beggar's hat; and Mr. Brimstone squeezed. Oh, did he squeeze! A nipple, large and hard like a jellied raspberry, spurted irrepressibly between his knobby sweating fingers, to it also he gave a squeeze, a pinch, a tickle, wholly dreaming now, out of this world.
DISCLAIMER: Contrary to the fabulous evidence of this paragraph, I am not, modestly, a writer. Please don't shower me with requests to give you the rest of the story. This paragraph was committed by way of congratulating a friend (whose last name happens not to be a million miles away from "Brimstone") on his 55th birthday, which he attained and survived in spanking good health.
May the same be true for you!
2aulsmith
Hmm, it told me I write like James Joyce also. I'm trying to write like James Thurber or Mark Twain. Guess I'm out-of-luck.
3LolaWalser
Lol, poor Joyce!
4abbottthomas
Thanks for pointing out the analyser, Lola.
I tried out one of my reviews as a handy cut-and-paste and it said I wrote like Jonathan Swift - how about that! So I tried again just to confirm but now it says I write like Dan Brown :-(
A rule of life - stop while you are winning.
I tried out one of my reviews as a handy cut-and-paste and it said I wrote like Jonathan Swift - how about that! So I tried again just to confirm but now it says I write like Dan Brown :-(
A rule of life - stop while you are winning.
5Ardagor
I was told I write like Dan Brown, enough to give anyone a nervous breakdown. Good luck that I am not a writer.
6John_Vaughan
>4 abbottthomas: Our dear learned Abbott, your reviews always read like Swift to me. You know Dr Lola writes great porn for a Scientist - loved that "Oh, what a rich, resonant sound, how righteously delicious"- good to see her in such spanking form, what?
7LolaWalser
>4 abbottthomas:
They say the follow-up is always harder than the debut...
>6 John_Vaughan:
Be a good boy and don't tempt me! ;)
They say the follow-up is always harder than the debut...
>6 John_Vaughan:
Be a good boy and don't tempt me! ;)
10bernsad
>9 Taphophile13: Ahhh, but has Lovecraft ever read you? Perhaps we're looking at this thing all backwards.
11Taphophile13
>10 bernsad: Oh, I just felt a chill.
12John_Vaughan
>10 bernsad: its OK Bern, I get Lovecraft too and I have never (or probably ever will) read him either!
13WholeHouseLibrary
I haven't been around in a while, so I just came upon this thread.
I entered this short story that I wrote several years ago:
A Saturday morning, early August, in the Adirondacks . . . My first wife and I had been married almost a year, and living off-campus in a small rented cottage while I studied for my Forestry degree. Situated on a long, narrow, secluded lake, our rented bungalow was a half mile from our nearest neighbor. We had gone to bed the night before with the two windows near the head and my side of the bed wide open to take advantage of the cool night air and low humidity. The scent of the pine trees wafted through the screens and we were lulled to sleep by the gentle lapping of the water on the shoreline and the boathouse piers not more than thirty feet away.
I remember the sensation of being almost-awake—aware, but not so much as to alter the cadence of my breathing, and I wanted to prolong this semi-dream state for as long as possible. I was cognizant that it was morning because the glow of the sun had not quite risen over the horizon of the small mountain to our east, and even with my eyelids shut, I could tell that our westward-facing room was already softly lit with a subdued natural light. The air was perhaps seventy degrees; the fragrant white pines and the sound of the lake water softly breaking on sand and stone at the shoreline buoyed this exquisite balance between the dream-state and the wake-state. My head was clear of thought. I knew this was the state of mind one attempts to achieve with meditation. And I was there; completely at peace; floating; no thoughts or cares; content and at rest. And then, there was the sonic boom.
I bolted up so fast I landed at the foot of the bed, flailing my arms, searching wild-eyed trying to determine which part of the cottage just got blown to smithereens, and shouted "What just happened?", the adrenaline coursing through my bloodstream so thickly it negated any need or desire to have coffee for weeks thereafter.
We weren’t in the flight path of any airline. Not even the Air Force flew jets over our area, even though their bases were in Plattsburgh—some eighty miles to the northeast—and Rome, NY even further to the west-southwest. The local airport had too short a runway to handle a plane fast enough to break the sound barrier, and its runway wasn’t oriented in a way that we ever saw a plane arriving or departing. The dynamite blasting that been done for road construction had produced short-burst tremors, but was so far away that you didn’t actually hear it; and that was over months ago. There were no satellites that had failed and entered Earth’s atmosphere; no meteors; nothing to explain the cause of my sudden and involuntary jolt fully into this plane of reality.
Behind me and to my left was my wife, still lying in bed, without the covers because they went with me to the foot of the bed, laughing—cackling now that I think about it—hysterically. She had farted.
I didn't know how much the analyzer could handle, so I submitted just the first two paragraphs. The results: Ursula K. Le Guin
Adding the second half, I apparently write like: Arthur Clarke.
No complaints. The difference in style between the two parts was done on purpose. I wanted to write a purely passive first half and follow it up with nothing but action. Two members of my writing group chided me for the deplorable use of past-perfect tense, and provided four rewrites to show me how to "punch it up." Yeah, I edit books for a living. Tell me something I don't already know.
I entered this short story that I wrote several years ago:
A Saturday morning, early August, in the Adirondacks . . . My first wife and I had been married almost a year, and living off-campus in a small rented cottage while I studied for my Forestry degree. Situated on a long, narrow, secluded lake, our rented bungalow was a half mile from our nearest neighbor. We had gone to bed the night before with the two windows near the head and my side of the bed wide open to take advantage of the cool night air and low humidity. The scent of the pine trees wafted through the screens and we were lulled to sleep by the gentle lapping of the water on the shoreline and the boathouse piers not more than thirty feet away.
I remember the sensation of being almost-awake—aware, but not so much as to alter the cadence of my breathing, and I wanted to prolong this semi-dream state for as long as possible. I was cognizant that it was morning because the glow of the sun had not quite risen over the horizon of the small mountain to our east, and even with my eyelids shut, I could tell that our westward-facing room was already softly lit with a subdued natural light. The air was perhaps seventy degrees; the fragrant white pines and the sound of the lake water softly breaking on sand and stone at the shoreline buoyed this exquisite balance between the dream-state and the wake-state. My head was clear of thought. I knew this was the state of mind one attempts to achieve with meditation. And I was there; completely at peace; floating; no thoughts or cares; content and at rest. And then, there was the sonic boom.
I bolted up so fast I landed at the foot of the bed, flailing my arms, searching wild-eyed trying to determine which part of the cottage just got blown to smithereens, and shouted "What just happened?", the adrenaline coursing through my bloodstream so thickly it negated any need or desire to have coffee for weeks thereafter.
We weren’t in the flight path of any airline. Not even the Air Force flew jets over our area, even though their bases were in Plattsburgh—some eighty miles to the northeast—and Rome, NY even further to the west-southwest. The local airport had too short a runway to handle a plane fast enough to break the sound barrier, and its runway wasn’t oriented in a way that we ever saw a plane arriving or departing. The dynamite blasting that been done for road construction had produced short-burst tremors, but was so far away that you didn’t actually hear it; and that was over months ago. There were no satellites that had failed and entered Earth’s atmosphere; no meteors; nothing to explain the cause of my sudden and involuntary jolt fully into this plane of reality.
Behind me and to my left was my wife, still lying in bed, without the covers because they went with me to the foot of the bed, laughing—cackling now that I think about it—hysterically. She had farted.
I didn't know how much the analyzer could handle, so I submitted just the first two paragraphs. The results: Ursula K. Le Guin
Adding the second half, I apparently write like: Arthur Clarke.
No complaints. The difference in style between the two parts was done on purpose. I wanted to write a purely passive first half and follow it up with nothing but action. Two members of my writing group chided me for the deplorable use of past-perfect tense, and provided four rewrites to show me how to "punch it up." Yeah, I edit books for a living. Tell me something I don't already know.
14Marissa_Doyle
I put in two samples, and learned that I write like Jack London and William Shakespeare. Um...
15jojoasdwer123
you guys are leading a very sad life if you have never heard of lovecraft, he was the first to wright about Cthulhu and bringing back the dead and unsacred, unholy rituals. He coined the Dreamworld and inspired famous authors like Stephen King. And It very well could have been that he read you sacrilegious being in Necronomicon.
16bluepiano
Er, Poe. The gas thing is that I was summarising some arguments in a sociology book I'm reading, not rhapsodising on adolescent girls' corpses. In any case I believe I'll have an extra whisky tonight simply to be in keeping.
17jjwilson61
>15 jojoasdwer123: Err, they didn't say they never heard of Lovecraft, just never read him. A pretty big difference.
18SFF1928-1973
...so I typed in some random twaddle and got Raymond Chandler.
19reigniter
Put in the same piece, edited and unedited. Apparently, unedited I write like Stephen King and edited I write like Agatha Christie. (Tried another couple of pieces with the same results, so I'm pretty consistent). Maybe I should get into more sensational storylines...
