"I Write Like"

[Danimal]

I write like
Kurt Vonnegut.

I guess.

 

[Jintor]

This thing sucks and I hate it.

 

[ríomhaire]

I got Cory Doctorow too (I copied my entire entry to the last short story competition). Perhaps he's the default?

 

[VirusType2]

This thing sucks and I hate it.

Yeah, this was cool when it was mysterious and seemingly all powerful. Now that we know how it works it's just disappointing.

I apologize to anyone who thought they were a great writer. Now you know it was only lies.

 

[ktimekiller]

what a load of horse shit

 

[Hobopro]

Don't get too excited. The results are generated at random I presume.

 

[ríomhaire]

Don't get too excited. The results are generated at random I presume.

You should probably try reading the thread or experimenting with it yourself. It uses keywords it seems. Putting in "robot" a hundred times gets you Isaac Asimov for instance.

 

[Zephos]

Amiable, amiable amiable. Amiable amiable amiable; amiable.

I daresay, can anyone guess who without actually cutting and pasting.

 

[JUL3]

I write like
Vladimir Nabokov

Me too! *high fives*

 

[JUL3]

Ugh, I just put in a fantasy story I wrote for school last year, evidently I write like Stephanie Meyer. :/

 

[Yuri]

If you mention vampires one single time it will do that.

Apparently Stephanie Meyer is the writer who best represents vampires. You'd think they would rather attribute that to Bram Stoker or something. nope

 

[Kula Meenur]

Dracula bitches, guess who owns the literary creation of the underdark?

 

[Druckles]

I'm going to stay with the ignorance that it analyses sentence structure and the like.

And I didn't realise people were assuming they wrote 'as well as' these authors. That would be impressive indeed.

 

[Dan]

I took 4 different paragraphs from the same piece and got 4 different answers. I write like William Gibson, Stephen King (who writes like crap), Margarette Atwood, and some Russian guy.

 

[Krynn72]

Damneth right! All you queereth homos can't ne'er touch mine writing ability!

Nay, I say again! None may enter yonder shrine! Verily thou knoweth of the beast whom resides within it's walls, doest thou not? It is a fell beast, slaying all unwitting adventurers in one swoop of it's tail.

 

[Reginald]

It's not totally keywords...

I'm not very good at coming up with things to type on the spot, so I'm just going to keep typing gobbledegook until something of interest comes out. Like that famous test thing. Where people keep writing gobbledegook until something of interest comes out. But it's more like their inner feelings. It's something psychological I think.

At the moment I am being bitten to death by mosquitoes. Oh little mosquitoes, why do you find blood so very tasty. To me it just tastes like iron. There are lots of nicer things in the world. Like Lucozade. Mmmm good. A vampire that drinks Lucozade. Stephanie Meyer. Twilight.

And I got Stephen King.

 

[Stigmata]

I got Stephen King, so obviously I'm not going to post the relevant example of my work.

 

[Dan]

This day is called the feast of Crispian:
He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand a tip-toe when the day is named,
And rouse him at the name of Crispian.
He that shall live this day, and see old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
And say 'To-morrow is Saint Crispian:'
Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars.
And say 'These wounds I had on Crispin's day.'
Old men forget: yet all shall be forgot,
But he'll remember with advantages
What feats he did that day: then shall our names.
Familiar in his mouth as household words
Harry the king, Bedford and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester,
Be in their flowing cups freshly remember'd.
This story shall the good man teach his son;
And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remember'd;
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition:
And gentlemen in England now a-bed
Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.

Your Badge
I write like
Charles Dickens