What kind of writing styles do you adore the most?

BlackKnightX

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I’m obsessed with different writing styles, or rather, different ways each authors tell their stories.

Some tell a story in a rather spin-you-a-yarn kind of way—like Stephen King, for example. Reading his books is like listening to your uncle telling you his story in front of a fireplace in the cold winter night. It gives you that cozy and casual feeling to it.

Then, there’s the like of Lee Child. Reading Jack Reacher is like watching a movie. He’s very descriptive and somewhat methodical. Honestly, sometime it gets kind of boring, but maybe that’s just me.

So, do you have your favorite style? Which author or novel has the best style, in your opinion? What do you like about it? Please share your opinion.
 
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Is it a cop out to say 'confident' and 'intentional'? :ROFLMAO:

I like a wide variety of writing styles, but what I love most is when author has clearly thought about their style and is doing something intentionally.

For example, while my own writing / narration tends to be quite close to the MC, I love a Terry Pratchett or Douglas Adam's style, where they are basically chatting to the reader. In both author's cases, it is done so confidently, so unapologetically, that it is very charming!
 

BlackKnightX

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Is it a cop out to say 'confident' and 'intentional'? :ROFLMAO:

I like a wide variety of writing styles, but what I love most is when author has clearly thought about their style and is doing something intentionally.

For example, while my own writing / narration tends to be quite close to the MC, I love a Terry Pratchett or Douglas Adam's style, where they are basically chatting to the reader. In both author's cases, it is done so confidently, so unapologetically, that it is very charming!
I love that as well. Conversational writing always gives off that intimacy between the storyteller and the readers. Like you said, it’s very charming.
 

Kilolo

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Mizuki Nomura.

the way he wrote the sentence is really enticing, you can totally feel the character worries, agony, and feeling of regret from what they did.
and it's not for the negative emotion as well, for the positive one also feels refreshing to read it.

the way the author express it, makes me as a reader could feel the emotion of the character as if it were genuine and makes me feel relate to them. (despite for not really understand it)

Mine has been a life of much shame.
Amongst a flock of white sheep, I was born the peculiar black sheep.
I cannot experience the joy my companions can feel, or the sadness my companions can feel, nor can I eat the same things my companions can eat.
Alien to its companions’ feelings of affection- love, kindness, empathy, and many others, all the tragic black sheep can do is cover its black wool with white powder, and pretend to be a white sheep.
Even now I am still wearing the mask, and play the part of the clown.

The first time I noticed my deviancy was when my grandmother, who treasured me very much, passed away from this world.
I remember after my grandmother had the heart attack, she had to stay on her bed all the time. Whenever I came near her bed to visit her, she would always gently stroke my head and say, “You are such a good child.” She would look pleased. Her eyes would squeeze into two tiny lines as she smiled.
But I was not what my grandmother thought I was- an obedient and empathic child. Her scrawny hands, her shriveled up face, her muddle white hair, and the disgusting medicine stench emitted from her body, all these revolted and horrified me to no end.
“You are such a good child.”
Every time she used that coarse voice to whisper to my ears, I would feel like she had laid a jinx on me. My neck would become stiff, my body would shudder.
If grandmother found out I was not a good child; if she found out that I loathed her- no doubt she would stand straight up from her bed. Her white hair would stand on their ends like a yashya , red flames would come out of her hazes, and that would swallow me alive. I was
really frightened by these thoughts, so dreaded that I would lie in bed at night, eyes wide open, cold sweat coming off my back.
So, I became even more careful. Careful so that she could not see my true face. I tried even harder to be a good child. I would deliver her three meals every day. I would wipe her sweat.
I did all I could to comfort her. I even placed my face onto her chest, and sweetly said “I love you, grandma,” or I would kiss her cheek.
The skin of the senile grandmother was as dry as arid leaves, and reeked of those repulsive medicines. I was really scared that her disease would infect me as well. Every time I was done
I would dash to the washroom. I would rinse and brush my mouth as hard as I could. I brushed so hard sometimes my gum starts to bleed, and blood would seeps all over my cavity.
At this point, I often felt I was a very bad child who only knew how to lie well. My throat would start to ache, and my face would become red hot.
One day, grandmother‟s body became cold. She would not move anymore.
“You really are a kind and sweet good child.”
As grandmother muttered this as if to herself, her hand, which was patting my head, dropped down suddenly. Her face became as pale as a wax candle. I did not feel sad. I just left the just deceased grandmother‟s body on the bed, and ran to the city park to play. I went back to my home near sunset. As I entered the door, my mom immediately ran to me and hugged me. She said, “Grandma died.” At that time, however, my heart was strangely as calm as a desolate forest.
After a few days, the funeral service for grandmother started. During the service, I did not shed a single tear. All the adults in the event noticed this and talked amongst themselves: “It is probably because he is so young. He doesn‟t understand that his favorite
grandmother has passed away. What a tragedy!”
When I heard the adults say that, a great sense of shame swelled inside of me. My ears became very hot. I could not lift my face up and stare ahead. But that wasn‟t because I was sad for my grandmother‟s death; No, I was ashamed of my deceitful acts.
And that, since I was small, is how I lived my life.
 
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MyukiMruieast

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I like to write 3rd Pov that shares enough and not too many information at once. There's no unreliability and focuses on which person This Pov was made to follow. There would be more dialogues rather than more descriptions. Details that are shortened and familiar that makes absolute sense.

She was your everyday girl, filled with troubles about herself and school. Hence, she was very afraid.
The creatures with long horns and sharp beaks brandished their claws; preparing themselves to eat the food they have caught. Reina's pupils shrunk as she hurriedly got to her feet, she could no longer spare any seconds, if she remained she would be eaten without a fight, at least before she dies, she could warn the others about her discovery...

I don't know what to call it so let's just name it : The typical 3rd POv
 

SailusGebel

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I don't have a favorite writing style, but if I had to choose, probably Gogol's? There is no particular reason other than him being my favorite author.
 

LordJoyde

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Realistic, darkly humorous and dramatic at every possible turn.

As for the answer; me, me, me!
 

Reinaislost

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Mizuki Nomura.

the way he wrote the sentence is really enticing, you can totally feel the character worries, agony, and feeling of regret from what they did.
and it's not for the negative emotion as well, for the positive one also feels refreshing to read it
Forgive me but I believe Nomura sensei is a woman.
 
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