All you do is paste a few paragraphs of your WIP (novel, short story, or poem) into this web page and it will analyze it and tell you what famous writer your writing is most like.
Here's what I plugged in...
I followed Foster down into the part of the court that was underground. The further we went, the more it smelled like freshly tilled dirt and reminded me of my mom. My mom is the kind of person who spends all day in the garden and always has this not unpleasant smell of sweat and fresh dirt around her. As soon as the thought of Mom came into my head, I had to push it back out again. Thinking about Mom right now would just make me cry.
The tunnels were lit by huge glass jars, the size of my head, which were mounted on the wall. Inside the jars were hundreds of fireflies. I was in awe at how it felt like summer, even down here. The air was cool, but the same kind of refreshing chill that a summer breeze had. Our steps fell silent on the dirt floor that had been packed down by so many feet before ours.
Every so often, we would hear someone in the passage before, or a door closing, but we never saw a single soul. And that made me worry.
“Where is everyone?” I asked Foster in a horse whisper.
“Gettin’ ready for the Samhain festivities,” Foster answered. “We almost be there. Ye go on in and I’ll stand watch.”
We stopped in front of a dark wooden door. There was a carving on it of a dwarf, like the dwarfs in The Lord of the Rings movies. The carving was so delicate and intricate I wondered who had done it. It was as if I could see every hair in the long bead that covered the dwarfs face. He was frozen, his mallet coming down toward an anvil where a sword was lying. It was so life-like that when I glanced back down to Foster, out of the corner of my eye it looked like the dwarf was moving.
“Should I knock?” I asked. Foster scowled at me a bit.
“If ye goin’ ta be taking on the Dark Court’s kingling then ye need ta get a bit more courage.”
“I’m working on it,” I snapped back. My palms were sweaty and I wiped them off on my sweat pants. I glanced at Foster once more before pushing the door open and walking in.
And there was no one inside.
I followed Foster down into the part of the court that was underground. The further we went, the more it smelled like freshly tilled dirt and reminded me of my mom. My mom is the kind of person who spends all day in the garden and always has this not unpleasant smell of sweat and fresh dirt around her. As soon as the thought of Mom came into my head, I had to push it back out again. Thinking about Mom right now would just make me cry.
The tunnels were lit by huge glass jars, the size of my head, which were mounted on the wall. Inside the jars were hundreds of fireflies. I was in awe at how it felt like summer, even down here. The air was cool, but the same kind of refreshing chill that a summer breeze had. Our steps fell silent on the dirt floor that had been packed down by so many feet before ours.
Every so often, we would hear someone in the passage before, or a door closing, but we never saw a single soul. And that made me worry.
“Where is everyone?” I asked Foster in a horse whisper.
“Gettin’ ready for the Samhain festivities,” Foster answered. “We almost be there. Ye go on in and I’ll stand watch.”
We stopped in front of a dark wooden door. There was a carving on it of a dwarf, like the dwarfs in The Lord of the Rings movies. The carving was so delicate and intricate I wondered who had done it. It was as if I could see every hair in the long bead that covered the dwarfs face. He was frozen, his mallet coming down toward an anvil where a sword was lying. It was so life-like that when I glanced back down to Foster, out of the corner of my eye it looked like the dwarf was moving.
“Should I knock?” I asked. Foster scowled at me a bit.
“If ye goin’ ta be taking on the Dark Court’s kingling then ye need ta get a bit more courage.”
“I’m working on it,” I snapped back. My palms were sweaty and I wiped them off on my sweat pants. I glanced at Foster once more before pushing the door open and walking in.
And there was no one inside.
Here's what I got...
AWESOME!
(But I will say this. I plugged in a few different pieces of my WIP and also got Dan Brown... I liked Tolkien better so that's what I choosing to pay the most attention to...)
Huh. I keep getting Neil Gaiman.
ReplyDeleteWell then you are just awesomely consistant! With my WIP I got Tolkien and Dan Brown. HOWEVER, with my short story that was published in F&T I got JD Salinger and for my mermaid short story I got James Joyce... Who'd a thunk.
DeleteThis is cool. I wonder what sort of algorithm they use. I kept getting different people (non I' was super familiar with) Arthur Clarke, Dan Brown, William Gibson...
ReplyDeleteAll men... I wonder if female writers are possible... hmmmm
Yes, female writers are possible. I know someone who got Stephanie Meyers... just saying.
Delete