Before I sent my book in to book binding services, I’d practice imitating different authors.
I’d write like Hemingway. I’d write short declarative sentences. I’d write by placing the subject early in the sentence and making it act on the object. I’d do it over and over until it seeped into my consciousness.
Then sometimes I’d write like Faulkner since he (Faulkner) is so different from Hemingway in his long sprawling prolix sentences that are full of adjectives and descriptors that allow the reader to get into the character’s head to better understand his psychology and why he thinks that way due to his surrounding culture and ambient cultural nature, which had been bred in that character like the cotton that grows from the Mississippi delta, implacable ever-lasting and inescapable.
I’d try other writers like Fitzgerald, who uses associations that fluttered through my head like butterflies, and which were easy to grasp and hold and love.
That was very good practice for a while. But when all was said and done, I simply wrote in my own style. And that became clearer and clearer as I edited my book before submitting it to binding services. This book is mine. It’s a product of my environment and my reading and my practice. And now that it’s returned from book binding services it’s easy to see.
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