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

A 5 page paper awaits…

and I’m trying to expand this poem:

In a perfect universe,
I would be bottomless and ample in all the right places.
You would fall asleep with your hands full,
And I would sip you until my eyes looked like the sea.
We would float endlessly and get lost this way.

I would tell you of a nightmare I had where
I was a bloodied manuscript tucked under the floorboards,
The love story of a decaying city,
An epiphany hanging mid-sentence left to dry this way.

You slid above me with women who taught you how to tiptoe.
You began to walk lightly until wood lost its voice
And splinters couldn’t remind you where find me.

I would tell you about the darkness I found in the obese gut of forgotten.
How my breath seemed to swallow its own memory
Until it could no longer see the hope in its hunger.

And then I would wake up, shaking.

But nothing genuine is coming out.

The unfortunate truth is this: I don’t miss him or love him as much as I should or thought I would. But I still like to think of him, and how he was nothing and everything I’ve ever wanted.