Decided to copy out some passages from famous writers, then re-write them, as an exercise. Then I ran them through “I Write Like,” to see how I did.
Upton Sinclair: It was quarter past three and the video was in its eighth hour of shooting when the caterer finally arrived. There was an entourage of servants and assistants in his wake, bringing with them a variety of chairs and tablecloths, disposable napkins, all of it borne on delicious aromas of cold cuts, cheeses, and delectable fruits. It was no easy matter for Ms. Minogue to maintain her grace and presence, the rock on which the smooth shooting would stand, when the overt professionalism of the caterer and his cabal caused such a ruckus on the set. The crewman and others were eager to sut themselves on this providential feast; but for some it was a friction, the desire to remain in the Australian super star’s presence, versus the overwhelming need to dive in, snacking. Kylie herself was only too willing to put a delicate but firm foot up the caterer’s ass, to express her own conflicting emotions: anger at the disruption, thankfulness for the impending repast, disgust at the selection of roast turkey over roast beef and cantaloupe over honeydew, relief that the caterer was able to lure away some of the more ardent sycophants who seemed to never give her a moment’s peace. She eventually focused all of this into a simple motion, grabbing the director’s clacky-thing, chopping it, and shouting “Take Five, People” in that accent which virtually no one understood. Yet to the tables they ran.
Upton Sinclair, James Joyce, H.P. Lovecraft: Settled, plumber Joe Cooler considered the foamy head gushing from his beer can, gripped in his oily hand and coating to imperceptible the tattoo on his thumb: a pussy. Bubbles coated inky pubic hairs and gave them a motion of tentacles, sideways mouth pursing hidden teeth. He clenched his jaw and held the can up, saluting the distant bikinis on rollerskates. In his other hand, curled ‘round his index finger, the beer can tab, that ring of metal that he’d scratched at and plucked, curled and ripped from the metal, a thin trickle of watery pink blood oozing from where he’d gripped it tight. A liver lacking enzymes, his blood therefore lacking platelets. With a sudden happy motion he flicked the metal tab into the air, straight up, and tossed the contents of the beer can towards his mouth, squinted at the stab of sunlight that reflected from the ascending beer tab. He gurgled, he quaffed, the tab fell down, behind him, landed without ceremony in the crack of his exposed ass, and inebriation did the rest. The bikinis on rollerskates escaped his visions with screams, went on to become college students, rape victims, mothers, extremely unpleasant patrons at Bonanza on weekday afternoons.
Flaubert: Often when Gilbert was alone in the apartment he would order cake from the grocery store seventeen stories below, and when it arrived, smear it on his face. He put his nose in it, daring his eyelashes to lick at the cream, the gently eased himself down until he could no longer breathe. Why did he do this? Was it Lisa? Had she ever made cakes, he wondered, his lungs beginning to burn just a little. Was it her lover, the one from college, who still facebooked her? Had she ever made him a cake? Gilbert pulled back a little and smiled at invisible mirrors. He should instagram this! He opened his mouth, and dared not let any oozing icing drip inside. Instagram, he said in a low voice, a fake low voice, like he was some kind of charismatic, overweight African American. Cake dropped from his brow, plopped in the floor at his feet, enticed a hidden cat.
Nailed it.