I Also Write Like...

Please be aware: this entry consists of a lot of showing off and many excerpts from things I've written over the last year or so. You were warned.

I'm sorry, but I can't help getting a little big headed about this. I went back, and it said I write like Charles Dickens. I've never read anything by him, but from what I hear he's pretty good. This is the passage:

"I did not know I could hate so fiercely. How dare the birds sing! Everything is in shades of grey, the sky, the grass, my dead sister’s pretty dress.
I let my tears fall, for this, I am the emotional kind. I water the grass, keeping my eyes on the ground. I try to drown out the words that are sending my sister into the earth. I want to run up to her coffin and climb in beside her. I do not care what they would think. Perhaps my parents would let me go; there is nothing they love in me.
What will they do with her piano? Will they keep it as a memory of their beloved Anabelle? Or will they choose to rid of it now she is gone, now the thought of her causes them so much pain."

Oh no. Stephen King again. It must be wrong. He's awesome. I'm not.

Ah, Charles Dickens again!

"The door burst in, crippling under the pressure of the men beating at it from the outside. Heavy footsteps pounded down the hall as Alina, Ilya and Nicolai escaped out of the back door. Outside, the snow was still falling. The houses stood silently with black windows and white-coated rooves; every so often there was a plop as the snow dropped off into the sea of white waiting below. The dirt road was muddy and covered in puddles, and dimly lit by the light coming from Alina's house. The night was still. They stood near the fence, back to the wall, guns poised in their hands, scared out of their minds."

I seriously want to know how accurate this is, because though I've had some critique I've never had someone tell me that I'm terrible. I want your HONEST opinion about these excerpts and the pieces from yesterday. If you want the whole thing I'll give you a link. Most of them are quite short.

Oooh, Kurt Vonnegut. I hear he's good:

"Alina laid still, her life bleeding into the snow. Ilya stood with his arms hanging uselessly at his sides. Nicolai knelt softly onto the ground next to her, and took her hand. He didn't say anything. He didn't need to. The sky, black above them, glittered with stars. The snow continued to fall. The last thing Alina heard was the soft rush as the flakes hit the ground, and the last thing she saw was Nicolai's face, pale and streaked with tears in the moonlight."

Ha. I just ruined THAT story for you.

Oho, Neil Gaiman! Now, I know he's good, so this must be false, because this is something I wrote in December 09. Everything I wrote back then was a little lackluster.

"My hand paused on the dish I'd been about to lift, while hers fiddled, unworried, with a newly sharpened red pencil. She put the pencil to paper and drew a tree trunk, with thick branches sticking awkwardly from the sides and twigs further extending the crimson limbs. She then picked up the light blue and, with her forehead almost touching the paper, drew individual leaves, one by one."

That's enough. I've exhausted my supply of literature and no doubt you lot are bored, that's if you haven't stopped reading already.

Remember. I want critique. I think I've fixed the comment thing.

xx