I write like...

[Sage]

So, this (http://iwl.me/) is a pretty cool site that a friend of mine showed me earlier today. Essentially, you copy and paste some of your written work onto it, and the site will analyze your style and word choice and tell you what famous writer you most resemble. So, who do you write like? Do you agree with the analysis, or do you think you draw influences from someone else?

INCLUDE IN YOUR POST THE EXACT PIECE OF WRITING THAT YOU HAD ANALYZED.

You can share the sample in a quote or a normal post or even just link to it if you already posted it in another thread. This thread is not for commenting on other people's work, I'm only asking people to include the writing they're having analyzed as to prevent people lying.

I decided I'd analyze this (http://sagedesus.tumblr.com/stories) story that I was working on a few months ago. On a chapter-by-chapter analysis, I got H.P. Lovecraft, James Joyce, Arthur Clarke, and Vladimir Nabokov twice. When I put all the chapters together and had the entire thing analyzed at once, I got H.P. Lovecraft, so I suppose he's the strongest influence.

When I think of Lovecraft, however, unfathomable cosmic horror and the unknown come to mind as the central theme. I've never really read anything by him (though I've been meaning to) so I can't speak for style and word choice, but thematically the story I've wrote was compared to (by a few friends I spoke with) Orwell (1984) and Burgess (A Clockwork Orange.) I don't think any automated analysis could pick on on larger themes, though. I'll have to look into all the authors that came up as results for me.

[Angel Androgynous]

Very cool site, Sage! (: I got Cory Doctorow. I never heard of him or read his work, but he writes Science Fiction, I think. Which is weird because I never wrote science fiction. (:
When I put the whole story in I got J. K. Rowling. ^_^ I feel kinda proud being compared to such an amazing author like that. The whole story is about 3000 words long so I will just put in the first few paragraphs. (The ones that got me Cory Doctorow)

Edit I wrote a little part of my story "Submit to lies" and I got Cory Doctorow again. I guess I write like him more. (:

This is from my story "Perago" and it was for an English assignment. I really like the introduction/beginning....otherwise, I feel like I can really improve the rest of the story.

“Are you sure you are ok? If you feel weird…”
“Yeah, I’m all cured now.” Déméns replied as his lips curled into a smile, though his eyes remained emotionless, as if someone just told him that the sky was blue. Auequitas sighed and looked at Déméns. He seemed all the same. Why would the hospital let him go?
Déméns Interfector was getting treatment from McCormick’s Mental Asylum for severe Schizophrenia, for being highly histrionic, and moderately antisocial. Auequitas found it strange that she wasn’t put in the hospital. She often suffered depression, paranoia, and dependency. She always relied on others, as she was relying on Déméns now to take her in his arms and tell her that everything is all right. She knew that was pointless to wish for that at all, for he had no feelings for her.
“Oh, Déméns! Sāviā́mus wants to see you! He missed you, you know! Let’s go visit him…”
“I do NOT want to see him again! EVER, do you understand, Auequitas?”
“Y-yes… but he is our friend.” Auequitas quietly cursed herself. How stupid am I? Déméns and Sāviā́mus are like enemies now! Ugh! Stupid, stupid stupid! “So…”
“I am going to go home now.” Déméns twirled around and waved as he walked in the complete opposite direction.

Submit to lies (Just a little portion)
Tired. I was tired of the barbed wires and the pain. I was tired of the cruelty. I was tired. I grabbed the first thing in my reach. The knife. He left it there. Why? I don't know, but my fingers itched for it. They wanted to grasp that knife for that he used to cut me... to inflict on me pain and to shower pleasure on to him. My hand darted towards that knife because my body was tired of all the rape I was put through... .and with all the rage, the rage, the rage, I plunged the knife into his neck. It satisfied me, to let him know what pain was. It satisfied me to stab him numerous times and to feel the warm blood running down the knife onto my hand. The barbed wire, the sick fetishes, they all were avenged, payed back, with this knife. This knife that was a sick fetish of his. This knife that brought so much pain onto me, was now plunging deep into his arteries. My mind was not thinking... the rage did that for me. I mustered up all my strength into that stab. The fatal stab that ended my rape for that one day.

Then I was afraid. Afraid. What will happen now? What do I do? I knew that his wife or friends didn't know where he was. I knew that such a businessman cannot be telling people that he is looking for someone weaker to satisfy his sick fetishes, so no one knew where he was... but I was still scared. I knew that I had to get rid of the body, and the blood. I had to stop wallowing in my own wounds and instead get rid of his. He was not drowning in his own pool of blood anymore, because by now his skin has gone cold. Dead and cold. The end of my torture. I felt a happiness inside. I was obsessed with that satisfying feeling of the end of my torture. Obsession. That has been a disorder for me, and it is obsession that made me repeat this over and over again... anytime that my torture would begin. My mind was in a truly disturbing state...

[Sage]

Let's remember that being compared to an amazing writer by this site doesn't say anything about how good or bad your work is, just what it's similar to based on style and word choice. I had the word "niggers" over and over analyzed and the results came up as Mark Twain (Probably due to the subject matter of stories like Huckleberry Finn.)

Also, contrary to what I said above, it'd be nice if any writing sample in posts here are in quote tags, just for the sake of being easy to see/read.

[Angel Androgynous]

Let's remember that being compared to an amazing writer by this site doesn't say anything about how good or bad your work is, just what it's similar to based on style and word choice. I had the word "niggers" over and over analyzed and the results came up as Mark Twain (Probably due to the subject matter of stories like Huckleberry Finn.)

Also, contrary to what I said above, it'd be nice if any writing sample in posts here are in quote tags, just for the sake of being easy to see/read.

Haha I know it's based on the writing style. My writing isn't anywhere near to a professional author's. And alright, I will put it in quote tags. ^_^

[Harlequin]

I write like Mario Puzo...who is he?


Small Occurrences
By Harlequin

The small town of Ophelio was nestled in the grove between two mountains. Octerg was the sharp mountain to the west and the smaller more rounded mountain to the east was known as Veldies where great wind tubins could be seen whirling their great arms around capturing the winds energy to help provide electricity. There were also hydroelectric plants along the great river Alphel that ran down the little town of Ameyus.

The yearly floods of the river Alphel constantly renewed the soil around the town. The farmers on the outside of the town had a simple time plowing the soft fertile land into rows where they would plant the much needed crops. The mills in the town were used to grind their wheat into flour and corn into corn meal. The corn was grown for the winter feed for the cows and sheep that grazed on the sloping sides of Veldies where great meadows bloomed regularly with their wildflowers making a magnificent tapestry each spring signaling new life and rejuvenation to the village folk below.

The main street of the town had two general stores that were always in a friendly competition. The owners were jokingly referred to by the locals as “husband and wife.” As one was run by a tall beefy male and the other by a thin wisp of a women who would meet in the evening and talk about their sales. A local apothecary was run by a mysterious hermit who people rarely saw outside the shop. There was a sandwich shop run by a young couple who had five children who helped to wait on the tables except for the youngest twins who set and cleaned the tables. And all the way on the outskirts was a local garage that was rarely used as the only vehicles used were the small all terrain vehicles that shepherds used. At the head of the town was the council building that also acted as the school for the young and the old that wished to learn new things. Next to that was a small library that held books and records of the town events and actions.

The shepherds were the odd bunch rarely coming into town except for when the occasion fitted. Like when an ATV needed repairs or the holidays for the seasons or slaughtering day came around when they showed off their livestock for the judges and a great feast of beef and mutton was provided by them.

This was the usually at the mid spring festival where the main of the flock would have birthed the next generation. In the summer there was the celebration of the harvest of the spring crops and the planting of the autumn crops. The next holiday would be in the end of autumn near the beginning of winter where they would celebrate another year of successful harvest. Then There was the midwinter celebration where they would celebrate being alive in the harshest times the valley could throw at them.

And the next day everything went as it normally would.

[Sage]

I write like Mario Puzo...who is he?

Wikipedia is our friend (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mario_Puzo). I don't know all that much about him, but it seems he'd be most well known for The Godfather and other stories on organized crime.

[Harlequin]

i put in another piece and i apprently write like H. P. Lovecraft. . . .
if you want i can post

[Scooby Dooby Drew]

Here's my half-finished Chapter 3 from a story I'm writing.
EDIT: I should mention, the characters are all my best friends, so it mostly won't make sense to anyone here.
The elevator rose higher and higher, the only sound was that of the riders’ breathing and the low hum of the lift. And possibly a man screaming from far below, but that was much more difficult to make out. The elevator chimed, a small, glowing 5 displayed over the doors. They slid open, revealing a small, well-furbished waiting room. Riu and Ema strode out into the room, beckoning for Crooked to follow. “She’ll be expecting us, I think she was eager to meet you.” Riu said as the walked towards the opposite door. Ema grabbed hold of the handle with a dramatic flourish, and said, opening the door, “And here she is! The president of Turnabout HUG News, Wunderbar Phalanges!”
The door opened, revealing…….. an empty office. There was a large, orante wooden desk on the far side of the room, with an empty coffee mug sitting on it, surrounded by piles of scattered papers. A computer laid overturned on the floor; it fell off at some point and no one had yet bothered to pick it up. Behind the desk there was a window that took up the whole of the wall, providing a beautiful view of the nearby river that I just now decided is there. The strangest asset to the room, however, was the large stage on the far left of the room, upon a grand piano and microphone in the foreground, and at the back along the wall was a massive, imposing pipe organ.
Riu started mumbling to himself (something about a lazy witch?), and walked over to the desk and began banging with his fist on top of it, “WAKE UP WOMAN!” There was a grumbling from under the desk, then the sound of someone hitting their head on the underside of the desk, followed by more grumbling. A second later, a blonde head popped up on the opposite side of the desk, looking like a drunk prairie dog sticking its head up to search for signs of its high hippo girlfriend (if you’ve ever seen one of these you know what I’m talking about). She stood up, still visibly disoriented, but she broke out into a grin and exclaimed, “Well guess what! I got a whole half-an-hour of sleep last night!” Ema looked visibly impressed, but Riu just cleared his throat awkwardly and said, “Wunder, the new employee?” Wunder looked confused momentarily, but then her eyes widened, “Oh yeah!” She turned to Crooked, “Hey there! Welcome to HUG! So, I’m assuming Riu and Ema gave you the grand tour already?”
“Err, yeah, they showed me the facility…. Is it legal, by the way, to kill employees for masturbating at work?”
“….The paperwork’s still being done on that one…” A look of vague concern passed over Wunder’s face, but she quickly dismissed it, “Anyways, it’s time for the next part of your so-called ‘initiation’.” She turned around and began sifting through papers on her desk, muttering, “I hate that word for it, it sounds like we’re college students hazing you or something…Aha!” She shouted the final word, and pulled a sheet a paper from underneath a cat that had been sleeping beneath a particularly large stack of papers. Wunder folded it with frightening dexterity into a paper airplane, which she released into the air; the plane gliding gently straight to Crooked. Riu explained, “It’s just a simple release form…. For uhh, complicated legal reasons…. IF YOU FILL IT OUT YOU GET FREE CANDY.” Riu flashed a bright smile, accompanied by a thumbs-up at Crooked. Wunder rolled her eyes, “Don’t worry, it’s for your benefit; it simply states that you have no affiliation with the torture department or Self-Esteem Fund for Girls Coalition, to keep you safe in case of a messy lawsuit.”
Crooked stared at the paper. Emblazoned across the top were the words, “I, [insert name here], HEREBY SWEAR I HAVE NOTHING TO DO WITH THE TORTURE DEPARTMENT OR THE SELF-ESTEEM FUND FOR GIRLS COALITION, AND I SHOULD NOT BE INCLUDED IN ANY MESSY LAWSUITS. AlsoIgiveRiufullpermissiontosexuallyharassmeinanymannerofhischoosing.” Followed by a line for his signature. He sighed, took his lucky pen out of his breast pocket, and signed the document, having already resigned himself to just going along with whatever insanity went on around here. Maybe it’d be more fun that way.
Instantly Riu was on top of Crooked, attempting to grope him.
…Yeah, on second thought, not so much fun.
Ema walked over and kicked Riu off Crooked, and then proceeded to spray him from a bottle labeled “Luminol.”


I write like Douglas Adams, which is amazing. I love this site. Then again, this story is a lot more comedic than my normal writing, so I suppose it figures it'd give me a comedic writer.

[Sage]

i put in another piece and i apprently write like H. P. Lovecraft. . . .
if you want i can post

I thought the extra large bold colorful message in the OP made it pretty clear that you must share your work in this thread. I think some people would just say "oh sweet I got (writer name) that's awesome" just for the sake of an easy post and/or bragging rights. Until you share so other people can see for themselves, I don't believe it.

[Harlequin]

An Untitled Literary Reference
By
Joseph

One fine gentleman who happened to be a scholar closed an old book he was having trouble with, a small book with small print. He took the glasses of off his nose and wiped them clean with the hem of his shirt. He blinked nearsightedly up at his worn ceiling. He put the half-moon glasses back on the ridge of his nose and looked out the window. A stray hand stroking his thick beard as he ponderously looked out at the strip of greenery, which was only a few blocks away from his 8th floor apartment.

Making a decision he pushed the chair back away from his desk, and picked up the little book and tucked it in his coat pocket. Adjusting the shoulders of his jacket to a better fit, he reached out and took his derby hat from its hat stand by the door and headed out. Taking the steps slowly he put one hand on the rail for the support, and made his way down to the busy street looking around at the hustle and bustle of humanity walking, sometimes running. He shook his head grinning to himself at the energy of the young people. He walked quickly across the street avoiding the horse carts and the new contraptions called automobiles. He got to the other side safely looking back as one of the new Ford cars went rumbling by, and he wondered if he himself should get one but decided that it was not worth the money.

Looking up at the street signs he made his way along with the huge crowds and entered via a side entrance to the park. He made his way through the trees slowing down as he listened to the rustle of the patient trees; the chatter of the squirrels and chipmunks busy gathering food for the cold winter fast approaching.

Walking along a path he was forced to the side of it as a pair of lads went whirring past on the bicycles, their laughter ringing amongst the quite of the trees. The gentleman watched them go for a bit before stepping back on the path and resuming his solace. Listening to his footfalls on the concrete path the sometime crunch of the autumn leaves underfoot. Indulging in a bit of childhood folly he kicked at a mound of leaves. Chuckling softly as he watched them scatter in the wind taking them up to swirl in its invisible grasp. The man would soon reach an empty park bench just on the outside of a little copse of trees. Brushing off the dead leaves he sat down, and pulled out the little book and thumbed to the page he was reading. Staring emptily at its pages for a few minutes before looking up taking a deep breath and letting it go in a sigh, letting himself get distracted by the laughter of a family a little ways away.

The man in the derby hat looked up in the sky watching the clouds scurry by, as if afraid to let the gaze of the humans on the ground settle upon them. The man in the derby hat settled more comfortably in the wrought iron bench. He would slouch a bit as he held the book up once again and began to read the words now easy to pick up. The wind rustled by whispering softly, moving along the park rushing by the families. The wind blows past the individuals who visit for recreation time in this green paradise. By those who got so much enjoyment of visiting this grassy vista, to swirl upwards to push the clouds away to other parts unknown.

[Harlequin]

This is all for a writing class i took

[Magenta]

I don't care that Sage will chew my head off, I'm not posting what I wrote merely because I'm not comfortable with it. I really don't care if you believe it or not.

I got Cory Doctorow and James Joyce. The first one sort of made me curious seeing as I've read Little Brother and it's interesting to think what I posted compares in any way. The second piece of writing I put in got the latter, whom I don't really know of anyway.

[deadpie]

AHAHAHHAHHA FUCK YES YOU MOTHERFUCKERS!

I got Chuck Palahniuk, my favorite fucking author, you fucking fuckers.


I used this part of my story, Last Step -

Jon goes silent and I take a step back from him, jump on my bed standing up and pointing the gun downwards at her. She's still crying, whispering in my head to kill her already. I ask my brother, “You think it's because the Doctors said I became mentally impaired after what that one kid did to me? I'm not stupid. So fuck you, buddy. Kill her right now.”

He won't kill her because I'm telling him what to do. Eventually, he would do it, but not right now because he's a sick sadist. All this time I've loved my brother, but right now, I see something else in him I should of saw long ago. He's a fucking reincarnation of Dad. Everything our father said was mad-hatter bullshit because our father is mad-hatter bullshit. Even with him gone I can see him in my brother. Does that mean he sees him in me too?

My brother turns his back from me slowly and puts his hand against the doorknob breathing out loudly, then sprints out towards us pulling out a switchblade from his pocket and jabbing it right into her chest. I fall over and slam against the window, drop the gun and start crawling away from him in fear.

Now this is the first I've ever been scared of him. I've seen him kill people before, but right now, I feel something completely different. He pulls off her clothes with his hands, throwing them across the room and starts yelling out random jibberish while stabbing her some more in the chest. I want to run out the room and call out for help, but I know he'd come at me with the knife and slash my throat, so I watch as he sticks the blade right into her neck.

Why haven't I closed my eyes yet? And why can't I close my eyes? He's in the bed that I sleep in, violently fucking her corpse and his screams turn to loud howls like wolves. There's a knock at the door and I yell out to my brother, “Shut the fuck up! There's someone at the fucking door!”

He throws himself off my bed, starts wiping the blood off himself with his bedsheets, but I stop him from leaving our bedroom and say, “I'll get it. Just stay in here and... I don't know. Just quiet the fuck down.”


I'm so fucking happy now.

[CaptainObvious]

i don't write fiction and so didn't have almost any of that to analyze. i gave it a pastiche i wrote that is nearly indistinguishable from joseph conrad's writing style, and it came back with david foster wallace. clearly it has limited abilities.

nonfiction i write seems to make it think i write like h.p. lovecraft. either way, i put no stock in its accuracy nor meaning. just a fun diversion.

[AllThatYouDreamed]

Using a piece that would likely get me banned, Chuck Palahnuik
(Topic; violent detailed painful murder)

Using the short below, I got George Orwell
Strange world; forests, rivers, buildings of tomorrow. Beautiful nature, unknown materials. Universe creates safety. However many children, none of them can harm themselves playing. Abandoned factories - target range - exists only unlockable by older ones. “We are the thousand children of death.” No. We are the children of survival.

[CyanideGoodnight]

Posting this in I got Ursula K. Le Guin, which I can't really agree with because I never read one of her books.


Glenwood forest has been apart of Glenwood Village even before it was called Glenwood. The forest is full of life, as forests usually are. But this forest gives off a stronger sense of being alive itself. That’s because it is, you know, as all forests are. And, like all things that have been apart of a village or town since it was founded, Glenwood forest is shrouded in an aura of mystery and rumors surround it like a dense fog.

[LKIFMRUG9556]

Coooool

[Magus]

I write like James Joyce.

Link? (http://iwl.me/s/d760c1b4)

He is tired. His days in the sub-Alley's are over. Cultured artificial eye throbbing. Sweat gleaming off of his creased forehead.

[embers]

David Foster Wallace. Got some different people for things I did ages ago but I don't remember and nor do I care.

In the capital of Greater Britain, namely, Newer London (just London to those who lived there), the Tuesday progressed as dreadfully as any other.

As the day progressed into evening, at precisely six past eight which was the most accurate prediction of sundown, a man made his way wearily to the entrance of a decrepit old tower. He had been buzzed from his nearby home to this place, and was simply given ‘time-handling malfunction’ as a reason.

So he procured from his pocket a key – one of twelve copies distributed throughout London to worthy applicants – and fitted it neatly into the centre of the steel door. Shifting his neck and body, as if in preparation, he turned the key quickly and immediately jumped backwards, as standard procedures dictated. The entire door shuddered and shrieked, before each half snapped back viciously. Light flooded in for the first time in perhaps a decade.

Almost instinctively, the man darted in, keeping his eye on the walls around him for a door. His knowledge of the building’s layout wasn’t extensive, unfortunately. But he found the right door: an old, vintage oak door, the words ‘timekeeping’ etched into it long after it was fitted. He turned the knob without hesitation and entered.

Inside was Newer London’s most efficient timekeeping system to date. The room – thirty yards long and thirty wide – was mostly occupied by ticking machinery. The contraptions grew progressively rusty as the man looked from his left to his right. It was eerie, but it worked: ViteLight, the self-proclaimed ‘world’s internet service provider’ had, a good twelve years before now, signed a deal with Newer London’s own government; they would make sure all new clock models were fitted with an auto-update that would run based on the time in towers like the one Bill was in right now. In addition, all twelve towers throughout Newer London would be synchronised regularly.

The bastards have a monopoly, Bill thought as all this information passed through his head. But their services aren’t entirely luxury. Just look at this shit hole.

He was supposed to be looking for the maintenance droid. These substandard, vaguely anthropomorphic machines were part of a bigger programme to provide efficient household robots, but the programme was scrapped in light of other areas that required funding. The men and women working on it were forced to tie up their projects quickly and to just, as their employers kindly put it, ‘get the fucking robots working’.

That was the reason Bill was here. Because every now and then, something malfunctioned, or the robot couldn’t deal with intrusive pests, or it got tied up in the machinery, or it simply lost its bearings and repeatedly rammed itself into the door. Or something equally stupid. Despite the hype surrounding ViteLight and its monopoly on internet service (which some described as well-deserved), Bill considered this low-lying project of theirs a bit of a muck-up.

He found the robot (an early model, basically a head on a torso on wheels) with a piece of string dangling from a crack in its rear. Its head had turned a complete 180 degrees and was making a basically programmed ‘frown face’. Bill loomed over it, the machine being only a measly two feet tall (although it could extend itself up to far above his own height), and remained there a minute or so. This whole menial task might have interrupted him, yes, but he was actually mildly amused by the extent of ineptitude that the machine could reach.

“You useless piece of shit,” he remarked, kicking the robot lightly. It reacted by flashing wildly and playing a pre-recorded ‘ow!’ Bill crouched and carefully removed the curiously placed string, putting it in his pocket. The robot swiftly turned its head the right way and drove furiously to the machinery in the other half of the room. It got to work.

As he left, he pondered the truth to his words. If there were no service robots, Newer London would certainly be a tardier place. You cannot leave the task of timekeeping to humans, because they cannot keep time accurately. Somewhere along the line, a human is bound to make an error much less trivial than being halted by cobwebs or missing a line of code for movement. Should these little machines have been given more time and perhaps even more money, Newer London’s clocks would be immaculate. It was only due to deadlines and ViteLight’s own greed for spending on things that would benefit the company more in the long term that the robots occasionally malfunctioned the way they did.

But then again, that was mere speculation, and not something Bill was good at.




AHAHAHHAHHA FUCK YES YOU MOTHERFUCKERS!

I got Chuck Palahniuk, my favorite fucking author, you fucking fuckers.

A friend of mine got Chuck Palahniuk for this, he's her favourite author too. She was really damn happy.