- You Write Like Leo Tolstoy, I Write Like Leo Tolstoy
We all write like Leo Tolstoy. Some of us even like to write like Leo Tolstoy; we tinsel trickling-brook sentences with the most fragile leaflike imagery, drape our select pink-petal verbs over everything – our verdigris mountains kneeling to our yellow-nugget suns – until soon, and before we can get up any kind of editorial dam, our prose rages, it torrents down the sides of this creative topography, gathering speed, picking up adverbs and metaphors like a glacier collects moraines, dodging – we trust – round those worn-away rocky outcrops up ahead and then we dump, oh, do we dump because we are not done, oh, no, we are not done with the silty effluent of our overworked prose that builds up into an impenetrable barrier, unseen ‘til it is too late, cutting off oxbow passages, beaching out the flat-bottoms of those who would correct our course, redirecting our vision into something that suggests a goalless meander, but look; look at the broad open valley we have cut from the voiceless wastes, the colourless prairie, look at what our leisure hath wrought, all because we write like Leo Tolstoy.
But no longer. Tomorrow – tomorrow I shall write like Raymond Chandler.
# 197w, inspired by the questionable output of iwritelike.com