I write like ...

I write like
Neil Gaiman

I Write Like by Mémoires, Mac journal software. Analyze your writing!

When I read about this site on Helen's Book Blog this morning, I thought I'd go ahead and let it analyze my writing.  I had, after all, seen it posted on several blogs.  Not expecting much and totally prepared to be disappointed, I chose my review of Garden Spells because it feels especially like the way I write.  Leaving out the two quotes from the book, I pasted it into the box that analyzes writing.  Wow, it says I write like Neil Gaiman!

Having analyzed the apple tree post, I tried a more recent one -- about a book I didn't like.  Now I write like Stephen King!  Okay, how about this post about Dance of the Dissident Daughter, one of my favorite books?  Now I write like Dan Brown.  Another review, another disliked book (leaving out the quote), and the analyzer tells me again that I write like Stephen King.  (I tried it again, leaving the quote in place, and I'm still a Stephen King write-alike.)  Using a long paragraph I wrote four years ago, I discovered I write like James Joyce.  However, using all of that same review, I'm told I write like Edgar Allan Poe.

My own analysis indicates:

• If I have fun writing a review, I write like Neil Gaiman,
• If I don't like a book, my reviews sound like Stephen King.
• Otherwise, I write like Dan Brown, James Joyce, or Edgar Allan Poe, maybe all rolled into one.

For my last experiment, I decided to plug in quotes from these writers and see if they sound like themselves.  I used admittedly rather short selections, which you can see at the bottom of this post:

1. Neil Gaiman writes like Rudyard Kipling (or Dan Brown or Cory Doctorow, when I plug in different quotes)
2. Stephen King writes like Margaret Atwood
3. Dan Brown writes like Dan Brown (this must be significant)
4. James Joyce writes like Arthur Conan Doyle
5. Edgar Allan Poe writes like H. P. Lovecraft (using only the last verse, Poe writes like Charles Dickens)

Very interesting, especially that last one.  I plugged in Poe's whole poem about "The Raven," which is arguably one of the most famous things he ever wrote.  And Poe comes out sounding like H. P. Lovecraft?  Aw, come on!  In *MY* final analysis, I think that I, along with these particular famous writers, all use English words; therefore, we write like each other!

Just for curiosity's sake, try it yourself:  I Write Like.
__________

QUOTES used above

1.  Neil Gaiman, Anansi Boys (quoted in my review):  "It begins, as most things begin, with a song. In the beginning, after all, were the words, and they came with a tune. That was how the world was made, how the void was divided, how the lands and the stars and the dreams and the little gods and the animals, how all of them came into the world. They were sung."

2.  Stephen King, Different Seasons:  "I have to remind myself that some birds aren't meant to be caged. Their feathers are just too bright. And when they fly away, the part of you that knows it was a sin to lock them up DOES rejoice. Still, the place you live in is that much more drab and empty that they're gone. I guess I just miss my friend."

3.  Dan Brown, Angels and Demons:  "Whether or not you believe in God, you must believe this: when we as a species abandon our trust in a power greater than us, we abandon our sense of accountability. Faiths … all faiths … are admonitions that there is something we cannot understand, something to which we are accountable. With faith we are accountable to each other, to ourselves, and to a higher truth. Religion is flawed, but only because man is flawed. The church consists of a brotherhood of imperfect, simple souls wanting only to be a voice of compassion in a world spinning out of control."

4.  James Joyce:  “I've put in so many enigmas and puzzles that it will keep the professors busy for centuries arguing over what I meant, and that's the only way of insuring one's immortality.”

5.  Edgar Allan Poe, "The Raven":

"Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door —
Only this, and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; — vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow — sorrow for the lost Lenore —
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore —
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me — filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door —
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; —
This it is, and nothing more."

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you"— here I opened wide the door; —
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore?"
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!" —
Merely this, and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice:
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore —
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; —
'Tis the wind and nothing more."

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door —
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door —
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore.
Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore —
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

Much I marveled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning— little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber door —
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as "Nevermore."