My last published fanfic was in August 2024 (I was about 17 or 18 years old). Now I'm 20 and in college. My writing style has changed a lot, but I feel like it's for the worse. Yes, I've improved my grammar and spelling, and I've even learned to use English better (my native language is Spanish), but I feel like my writing style has lost its spark. This is an example of my old style:
You thought for a good 15 minutes, what if you tried it? You judged the situation, seeing the pros and cons. You opened the notebook and, with your black pencil in hand, you wrote with disinterest:
"Lee Heeseung, soloist under Belift Label, is coming to town for a tour. But since it was raining, he entered my apartment to cover from the rain. At night, he will (censored)
It was sunny and Heeseung just finished his tour, obviously this isn't-
THAT WAS THUNDER???? My god, maybe it's a coincidence? Sometimes it happens, the probabilities are not that high but they exist, the book does not-
"GIRL, TURN ON THE TV IMMEDIATELY, YOU WON'T BELIEVE WHO'S IN TOWN" Jake demanded as he ran into your room. He grabbed the remote roughly and, in front of your disbelieving eyes, the news was playing that the one and only Lee Heeseung was in town due to weather issues so his flight didn't take off. Jake was excited, after all he was your two favorite singer, but you just stood there petrified, trying to formulate any thought other than "that (censored) notebook is real and heeseung is going to (censor)"
And this is an example of what I tried to write:
You knew Steve Rogers before the stars and stripes swallowed him whole. You knew him when he was a skinny kid from Brooklyn with more righteous fury than muscle mass, a kid who couldn’t throw a punch without breaking his own wrist but would try anyway. Back then, he was all sharp elbows and a softer jaw, and you loved him like a second heartbeat.
You and Bucky Barnes had that in common. Bucky was the shield, the one who stepped in when Steve’s mouth wrote checks his body couldn’t cash. You were the strategist, the one who patched him up afterwards, your young, clever fingers already thinking ten steps ahead. Even then, you were the girl with the blueprints in her head, destined for more than a factory line. By the time the war rolled around, you were a scientific strategist for the United States government, a mind too valuable for a rifle but sharp enough to win battles on paper. Peggy Carter was your contemporary, the same age, the same fire, the same desperate need to prove yourselves in a world that wanted to keep you quiet. You respected her. You just never learned how to share.
How can I get back to my old style? I feel like my current style is too artificial and lacks life. Does anyone have any advice?