I write like…

As your resident party pooper, I say that the “I write like” website probably isn’t totally legitimate or accurate. If it’s telling me I write like Dan Brown and James Joyce and Gertrude Stein, I want to know why. There may not be any rhyme or reason to these famous author matches, but it’s still fun to see who’s writing your words emulate. I entered three snippets of writing into the generator: 1) a blog post 2) a poem and 3) an essay.

Round ONE

Round TWO


Which famous author do you write like? Go for it.


I’ll take a little bit of poetry with my late night tea.

Just quoted a line from this poem in a screenplay I’m working on. See Frank read it here.
Having a Coke with You

is even more fun than going to San Sebastian, Irún, Hendaye, Biarritz, Bayonne
or being sick to my stomach on the Travesera de Gracia in Barcelona
partly because in your orange shirt you look like a better happier St. Sebastian
partly because of my love for you, partly because of your love for yoghurt
partly because of the fluorescent orange tulips around the birches
partly because of the secrecy our smiles take on before people and statuary
it is hard to believe when I’m with you that there can be anything as still
as solemn as unpleasantly definitive as statuary when right in front of it
in the warm New York 4 o’clock light we are drifting back and forth
between each other like a tree breathing through its spectacles

and the portrait show seems to have no faces in it at all, just paint
you suddenly wonder why in the world anyone ever did them

I look
at you and I would rather look at you than all the portraits in the world
except possibly for the Polish Rider occasionally and anyway it’s in the Frick
which thank heavens you haven’t gone to yet so we can go together the first time
and the fact that you move so beautifully more or less takes care of Futurism
just as at home I never think of the Nude Descending a Staircase or
at a rehearsal a single drawing of Leonardo or Michelangelo that used to wow me
and what good does all the research of the Impressionists do them
when they never got the right person to stand near the tree when the sun sank
or for that matter Marino Marini when he didn’t pick the rider as carefully
as the horse

it seems they were all cheated of some marvelous experience
which is not going to go wasted on me which is why I am telling you about it

Frank O’Hara

One-Man Tweets from 1906 France

From Brain Pickings:

Artist, anarchist and literary entrepreneur Félix Fénéon was the one-man Twitter of early 20th-century France. Between May and November of 1906, he wrote 1,220 succinct and near-surrealist three-line reports in the Paris newspaper Le Matin, serving to inform of everything from notable deaths to petty theft to naval expedition disasters. In Illustrated Three-Line Novels: Félix Fénéon, artist Joanna Neborsky captures the best of these enigmatic vignettes in stunning illustrations and collages.

Continue reading

Melancholy Whores’ Memories of Gabriel García Márquez

*Found this! A delightful satire of a beloved author. This made me chuckle. 

by Tyler Stoddard Smith


Oh, I remember Gabby. Let’s see, I guess the first time we met was around 1945. I was pole dancing with my lamp post, you know, doing my thing, and up comes this fresh-faced little guy—couldn’t have been any older than 15 or so. Anyway, I asked him if he wanted “some company”, but then he asked me if I wanted some company, produced a little violin, and fiddled a passionate Dvorak. I told him he didn’t have to go through all that rigmarole—that I was a pretty sure bet—but he persisted. He was a romantic that way. But troubled. He was so obsessed with the Banana Massacre of 1928 that if anyone even so much as offered him a nice bowl of banana pudding, he would tie himself to a chestnut tree until it rained little yellow butterflies. Not a great lay. Good tipper, though.


He was a real charmer. Told me I was the most beautiful girl of all the 5000, though I have no idea which 5000 girls he was talking about. Hell, he could have been referring to those tight-assed North American putas for all I know, but it’s always a nice thing to hear. He’d come to me when I was in Paris and he was just a struggling young writer. I remember Hemingway trying to pay for a threesome, but Gabriel backed out at the last minute. It ended up me, Hemingway, and some nut-job called Ezra. To be honest, nobody really thought Marquez would make it as a writer. He spent most of his time on the quais, castrating roosters and posing silly little tautological riddles to the passersby. He was always a gentleman, though. For Christmas, he gave me a monogrammed chamber pot. He also gave me crabs.


Oh, he was so out of his element in New York. Have you ever seen a Mexican try to ice skate? No, wait. He was Colombian. Anyway, I’d take him to see Bird Parker and Dizzy play at Minton’s, and he’d sit in on percussion, playing a golden fish (this until Dizzy Gillespie pushed his face in with a trumpet). He also claimed the city was suffering from an insomnia plague, and you’d think being from Colombia he’d know about blow. That was part of his charm, though.

He was so innocent—like the way he would insist there was a magician in Murray Hill who had discovered something called “ice.” I tried to explain that ice was just one of the 15 crystalline phases of water and it wasn’t that big a deal, but he was still quite impressed and went on listening in childlike rapture as the magician espoused his theory that the Earth was round, “like an orange”—an idea Márquez took as a revelation.

I should mention that this “magician” was my old pimp, Cujo, who took perverse pleasure in messing with the green and gullible Márquez. We also gave him a bogus exchange rate, and I took him for a $150 hand-job. I don’t feel good about it, but in my line, when you see an opportunity—


I don’t do that weird kind of shit, okay. I told him to take his goat to the curb. Just because I’m a whore doesn’t mean I don’t have boundaries.


Oh, my. I haven’t thought of Gabriel in 100 years of what’s mostly been solitude (I’m up in Sing-Sing doing a dime). They say he became a famous writer, but he was a strange pilgrim, I’ll tell you. He always referred to me as his “Very Old Woman With Enormous Wings,” which is somewhat flattering to a melancholy whore like me. I mean, I could have done without the “old” part, but when you’ve been through love in the time of cholera (and other demons like gonorrhea, syphilis, herpes and a widespread outbreak of genital warts), you develop a profound appreciation for just living to tell the tale.

We’d meet up for what Gabriel would call an “evil hour” (it was more like 4-5 minutes, but hey, why squelch a harmless fantasy?) and have prison sex. The torrid affair lasted until—hmm—I guess it was around autumn. He found out I was the patriarch of a wealthy family in Bogotá and just flipped out. I explained that “Mel” wasn’t necessarily short for “Melanie,”’ (ever heard of Melquiades—duh!?), that my life in Bogotá was over, and that he needn’t feel so guilty about falling in love with another dude. But you know those Latinos; even when it’s magical, they can’t escape their own guilt-ridden perception of realism.

via The Morning News