On a Slightly Lighter Note

I plugged in the verbiage from my short story, ‘One Bright Star to Guide Them’ which appeared in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction in the April-May edition of the magazine (I plugged in the first chapter of my current novel, COUNT TO A TRILLION, but it came out that my writing style matched that of Vladimir Nabokov, a writer not to my taste, so I decided to see whether a second sample would produce a more flattering result.)

I write like
William Shakespeare

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

Shakespeare? Me? Well, who am I to doubt the accuracy of an utterly scientific test!

Alas, but science, outside of the walls of East Anglia University, is all about doubt. Let us establish a baseline, shall we?

In order to test the accuracy of the test, I next found and uploaded a copy of the famous (read: notorious) “The Eye of Argon” by Jim Thiels, commonly held to be, in SF print, what PLAN NINE FROM OUTER SPACE is to SF film.
The opening paragraphs are as follows. I swear by the teeth of Saint Apollonia, by the footprints of Saint Wenceslas, and by the bald spot of Saint Augustine that I AM NOT MAKING THIS UP. There is actually a story actually written that actually reads as follows:

  The weather beaten trail wound ahead into the dust racked
climes of the baren land which dominates large portions of the
Norgolian empire.  Age worn hoof prints smothered by the sifting
sands of time shone dully against the dust splattered crust of
earth.  The tireless sun cast its parching rays of incandescense
from overhead, half way through its daily revolution.  Small
rodents scampered about, occupying themselves in the daily
accomplishments of their dismal lives.  Dust sprayed over three
heaving mounts in blinding clouds, while they bore the burdonsome
cargoes of their struggling overseers.
     "Prepare to embrace your creators in the stygian haunts of
hell, barbarian", gasped the first soldier.
     "Only after you have kissed the fleeting stead of death,
wretch!" returned Grignr.
     A sweeping blade of flashing steel riveted from the massive
barbarians hide enameled shield as his rippling right arm thrust
forth, sending a steel shod blade to the hilt into the soldiers
vital organs.  The disemboweled mercenary crumpled from his
saddle and sank to the clouded sward, sprinkling the parched dust
with crimson droplets of escaping life fluid.
     The enthused barbarian swilveled about, his shock of fiery
red hair tossing robustly in the humid air currents as he faced
the attack of the defeated soldier's fellow in arms.
     "Damn you, barbarian" Shrieked the soldier as he observed
his comrade in death.
  A gleaming scimitar smote a heavy blow against the
renegade's spiked helmet, bringing a heavy cloud over the
Ecordian's misting brain.  Shaking off the effects of the
pounding blow to his head, Grignr brought down his scarlet
streaked edge against the soldier's crudely forged hauberk,
clanging harmlessly to the left side of his opponent.  The
soldier's stead whinnied as he directed the horse back from the
driving blade of the barbarian.  Grignr leashed his mount forward
as the hoarsely piercing battle cry of his wilderness bred race
resounded from his grinding lungs.  A twirling blade bounced
harmlessly from the mighty thief's buckler as his rolling right
arm cleft upward, sending a foot of blinding steel ripping
through the Simarian's exposed gullet.  A gasping gurgle from the
soldier's writhing mouth as he tumbled to the golden sand at his
feet, and wormed agonizingly in his death bed.
     Grignr's emerald green orbs glared lustfully at the
wallowing soldier struggling before his chestnut swirled mount.
His scowling voice reverberated over the dying form in a tone of
mocking mirth.  "You city bred dogs should learn not to
antagonize your better."  Reining his weary mount ahead, grignr
resumed his journey to the Noregolian city of Gorzam, hoping to
discover wine, women, and adventure to boil the wild blood
coarsing through his savage veins.

It goes on likewise.

Pretending to be Jim Theis, I submitted this blindly heaving yet incandescent atrocity of the daily burdonsome accomplishment of my dismal life to the judgment of the writhing mouth and grinding lungs of the rippling “I WRITE LIKE” analyzer, and riveted my right finger on the button, so that my emerald green orbs could glare lustfully at the analysis result.

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

My scowling voice reverberates with mocking mirth.