Is it possible to create a Writing Tool that replicates a Person's Writing.
- Thread starter Isoquinoline
- Start date
Do you mean physical writing as in holding a pen and writing out? This is very much possible, you would need to set up a programme to scan someone handwriting and then replicated it. Look at Patrick Tresset's work in pen holding or you can use a CNC like set up to hold the pen.
Do you mean write as in to write a story or email like a certain person would? This is very difficult however, there are teams out there trying to so this. You would have to teach a LLM with a lot of a person's wrtiting style, beliefs and input the story/letter/email/article plan to allow it to do it.
Do you mean write as in to write a story or email like a certain person would? This is very difficult however, there are teams out there trying to so this. You would have to teach a LLM with a lot of a person's wrtiting style, beliefs and input the story/letter/email/article plan to allow it to do it.
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Then you need to go on an AI coding/teaching course and learn how to teach an AI, you can use a commercial one, the person's style.
This has been tried with mixed results.
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There are plenty of tools to copy a writing style of XYZ person, nothing special needed, just a reasonable sized sample of the writing.
Works better on short pieces, writing a full Ken Follett novel might be a challenge but you could break it down.
What do you actually want to do and why?
Works better on short pieces, writing a full Ken Follett novel might be a challenge but you could break it down.
What do you actually want to do and why?
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You can, but you need to be careful you vet and test who you are hiring. It helps if you have a basic understanding of what you are asking them to do.
Nick is right there are tools out there already. It again you will need understand what you are looking to achieve. And it all depends on how much you are trying to write.
Are you looking to cut your time writing emails, posts, blogs? Or replicating an authors style?
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Already loads to tools to do this:
www.hyperwriteai.com
Famous Writer Style Mimic | Emulate the style of your favorite writers | HyperWrite AI Writing Assistant
AI tool that generates text in the style of a specified famous writer based on user-provided input. Ever wanted to write like your favorite author? HyperWrite's Famous Writer Style Mimic tool is here to help! This AI-powered tool generates text in the style of a specified famous writer based on...
www.hyperwriteai.com
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- Original Poster
- #9
I have an idea based on a Writing Tool that can replicate an individuals writing via something I called the Infinite-Based Composition.
As the Infinite-Based Composition stands right now
This is the Infinite-Based Composition to access the Most Thorough and Raw Composition of a User to then replicate their Writing.
-Any Subject/Topic that the User is Vehemently Passionate about
-Any Subject/Topic the the User hold Extensive Knowledge over-Religion, Geopolitics, Philosophy, The Sport of Football and so on.....
-Absolutely Anything that the User can, Familial Relationships, Tv Series/Shows, Pop Culture, Favourite Artist, Any Special and Memorable Moments in Life and just about Absolutely Anything
This allows for the Writing Tool to assess and dissect the Most Raw, Unfiltered and Thorough Method of someone's Writing.
Problems that the Infinite-Based Composition solves
- Pushes back on Tediousness given the Vast Range of its Subjects and allowing users to write Absolutely Anything.
-Integrates Different Forms of Writing given that the Writing Tool has to access a Sheer Multitude of Different User's with Completely Different Composition.
-Solves the Frequent Repetition of the Composition given its Vastity of Different Subjects and Infinite Options.
-Gives the Writing Tool a much more Conducive Tactic for Replication.
Engagement through Contextual Challenges
Another option is to introduce contextual challenges in a way that keeps the user invested:
Writing Exercises: Based on the user’s past compositions, the AI could present them with writing challenges designed to test new techniques. For example, having Jeff write a corporate proposal in a narrative style or crafting a complex metaphor to explain a corporate concept. This would still allow Jeff to maintain his expertise but push his writing boundaries.
Now I do understand that this potentially can be too ambitious and not rooted in realism which is a fair and appropriate critique, given that I have Absolutely No Knowledge or Experience in AI Creation and Expertise.
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- Original Poster
- #12
Professional Writers like Authors and Novelists, Journalists/Bloggers Script and Screenwriters.
Business Owners and Thought Leaders who want to craft emails, blog posts, or books that sound exactly like them rather than generic AI-generated text.
Professors, Students, Thesis Writers, Historians and Analysists.
The Proposition would be a Writing Tool that completely replicates your Writing and stores it like DNA instead of just generating the typical AI text, it ensures Authenticity and writes exactly like you. Unlike Jasper, Grammarly and ChatGPT-this tool writes like you not a Machine.
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@Isoquinoline - I’m still not clear about why you want to do this. Many of those you are targeting are already using authoring tools to generate first drafts or tidy up existing copy.
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- Original Poster
- #16
I know AI development is expensive, which is why I’m focusing on refining the concept before looking for investors or AI experts. That said, the value of my project is clear. Current tools can clean up text or generate generic content, but they don’t truly capture a person’s unique writing style, voice, or deep knowledge on topics they care about.
Think of a professional writer, thought leader, or business executive who wants an AI assistant that genuinely writes like them—not just any AI-generated text. That level of personalization and authenticity is missing in today’s tools, and my project is designed to fill that gap.
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Whilst I've no doubt there is some potential demand, I wonder if you've researched how you are going to reach your target market, how you will monetise it - but above all, I'd be concerned that people with far bigger budgets than you will either beat you to it or simply steal your market away.
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So I used HyperWrite to create two texts in the style of PG Wodehouse around a piece based on a real event in my childhood - I shall put them in separate posts - see which one folks here prefer. Here's the first one -Already loads to tools to do this:
Famous Writer Style Mimic | Emulate the style of your favorite writers | HyperWrite AI Writing Assistant
AI tool that generates text in the style of a specified famous writer based on user-provided input. Ever wanted to write like your favorite author? HyperWrite's Famous Writer Style Mimic tool is here to help! This AI-powered tool generates text in the style of a specified famous writer based on...
In my youth, circumstances had arranged themselves so that my mother - a former Austrian baroness, no less - found herself dispensing petrol to the motoring population of Wandsworth. The fall from grace had been rather spectacular, rather like watching a peacock attempt to adjust to life as a sparrow. We inhabited a council flat that struggled to contain our family heirlooms, which stood about the place looking as comfortable as a duke at a dog show.
It was against this backdrop that we occasionally received invitations to visit the more fortunately situated branches of the family tree. My uncle's Scottish estate, in particular, was the sort of place that made one understand why people went to the trouble of becoming rich in the first place. The house stood proudly among its grounds like a hen presiding over particularly well-ordered chickens, complete with all the trimmings one expects of such establishments - butler, cook, servants, and even the occasional pig-man named Eric whose accent required subtitles even for other Scots.
Now, there are those who claim that certain authors - and I have in mind one P.G. Wodehouse - painted country life with too broad a brush. Stuff and nonsense, I say. I have seen things in Scottish country houses that would make Wodehouse's fictional accounts seem like documentary realism. Take, for instance, the Earl who motored about the Highlands with a pig in his back seat, as if this were the most natural thing in the world. Or consider his sons - one who embraced Islam and dubbed himself Mustaffa Abdul, while the other chose to become The Prophet Uma, complete with floral dress. One rather feels that fiction, in comparison, lacks imagination.
But I must tell you about the time I witnessed something rarer than a modest politician - a butler reduced to helpless laughter. The occasion was a family gathering to welcome my Aunt Ruth from New York, a woman who approached life as if it were a boxing match she intended to win by sheer volume. She arrived in Scotland full of complaints about everything from the size of the trains to the mathematical complexities of British currency, delivered in a voice that could strip paint at fifty paces.
The formal dinner began as these things do, with all the proper ceremony. The butler directed operations like a field marshal, while two neat serving girls executed their duties with military precision. Aunt Ruth, meanwhile, had developed an attachment to the family Pekinese, a small black creature called Mitsy-Moo who sported a red bow with the same confidence as a duchess wearing the family tiara.
Somewhere between the fish and the venison, Aunt Ruth secreted the dog beneath the tablecloth on her lap, where it settled in for what proved to be an unexpectedly adventurous evening. The meal proceeded with the usual parade of dishes, accompanied by Aunt Ruth's running commentary on her plans to terrorize her neighbors with gifts of home-made compotes.
When at last my other aunt rose to signal the end of dinner - that moment when gentlemen traditionally migrate to the library and ladies to the drawing room - we were treated to a tableau that would have made a bishop kick a hole in a stained glass window. There, where Aunt Ruth's dress ought to have been, was nothing but a gaping void, through which could be observed yellowing undergarments, suspender straps, and what appeared to be a small forest of personal foliage.
The shriek that followed caused several passing birds to alter their migratory patterns.
Later, in the kitchen, I found the butler - that pillar of propriety, that embodiment of dignified service - collapsed in his chair, tears streaming down his face, clutching a glass of malt whisky and gasping between fits of laughter, "I'll nay see something as funny as that, as long as I live!"
And do you know, I rather think he was right.
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And here's the second -
I don't have some great message or pearls of wisdom to impart this time - I just thought I'd cheer you all up with a good story!
And let's face it, with the state of politics and business in general, we bloody well need cheering up!
After the war, my mother, once an Austrian baroness, was reduced to living in a council flat and serving at the local petrol station. As a result, she became obsessed with status and money, largely because we had neither! So I grew up, surrounded by grinding poverty, money worries and family heirlooms that looked remarkably out of place in a coal-fired council flat in Wandsworth.
Occasionally, we were invited to visit branches of my father's family that had not fallen on hard times and this was a real eye-opener for me. Especially the regular visits to one uncle who lived in a real mansion in Scotland.
It was straight out of PG Wodehouse. The whole bit. Servants, grounds, huge house, butler, cook, you name it and they had it. Every time I read a story about Bertie Wooster or the Earl of Emsworth, I picture my uncle and aunt. When I read of butlers serving drinks in the afternoon and cooks working in large kitchens with several wood-fired stoves, I can say that I was there. When I think of Cyril Wellbeloved, the pig-man with no roof to his mouth (in the story ‘Pig-Hooye!’) I can honestly say that I have met that man, or rather his Scottish counterpart, Eric!
Critics of the stories of PG Wodehouse are often to be heard, claiming that his stories are far fetched. No country gentleman is as woolly as the Earl of Emsworth, no aunt as ghastly as Aunt Agatha, no American as vulgar and brash as Donaldson of ‘Donaldson’s Dog-Joy.’ Trust me, I have met them all and, I hasten to add, in my most formative years - if anything, PG's world was but a pale reflection of the real thing!
I met an Earl up there that drove around Scotland in his Austin A35 with a large pig lying on the back seat. He had two sons, one of whom converted to Islam and called himself Mustaffa Abdul; the other put on a floral dress and told the world that he is now The Prophet Uma.
I have even met Baxter, the Efficient One! More than once, come to think of it!
But back to my story - PG Wodehouse describes (in his book ‘Over Seventy - a letter to JP Winkler’) that he once saw a butler almost laugh when PG’s trousers rode up over his shirt whilst trying to sup soup. In Wodehouse’s stories, butlers never laugh, but merely raise an eyebrow or twitch the corner of a lip very, very slightly.
Butlers it seems are subject to a strict code. They may twinkle an eye or two, but only slightly. Rather like those gentlemen that stand guard at the entrance to hotels, wearing the uniform of an admiral in the Romanian Navy, laughing is against 'The Code'.
But in the story I am about to tell you, I once, when just a lad of some nine or ten Summers, saw a butler reduced to tears of laughter.
My Aunt Ruth was visiting from New York and all the family was summoned to meet her at my uncle’s place in Scotland and stay for the weekend. Ruth was a small fat woman who wore dresses that were several sizes too small for her. She didn’t talk so much as scream at the top of her voice and in as harsh a New York accent as you could possibly imagine. Aunt Ruth hounded her husband Louis to death and then erected a huge mausoleum in his honour.
Her husband made a fortune, importing ‘herbs’ from his original home in Sicily and that whole side of the family was exclusively populated by swarthy, thick-set men with Italian-New York accents. They were all called Louis and had wives that screamed. Occasionally, I got to meet these men, referred to as Uncle Louis, Uncle Louis, or Uncle Louis, when they visited Britain on business.
“You’re a good kid!” said one Uncle Louis and thick fingers covered in gold rings and scars would push silly money into my hands, to be rescued later by my father.
“I think we’d better keep that for your education in the future.” he said and I knew he meant food and rent.
Aunt Ruth had come up to Scotland by train and immediately complained that the trains were too small and too slow. She complained about the currency. “How come there ain’t ten shillings in a pound?” she screamed.
“I tried getting a drink at a drug store and they refused to serve me!” she bellowed. “Can someone explain to me what a dime is over here? How many dimes and quarters are there in a pound?” she said in a voice that loosened the ivory handles on the family silver.
Dinner was a formal arrangement with the butler directing two serving girls, neatly turned out in black and white uniforms. The cook was the butler’s wife and she did us all proud with a magnificent meal, which had Aunt Ruth screaming for the recipe, as she dribbled her food down the front of her dress.
“I want to make this for the neighbours. They’ll love it. I make them jars of compotes, but they’ll love this soup!” and I had visions of neighbours, hiding behind their curtains, living in fear of Aunt Ruth and her compotes.
Aunt Ruth had taken a liking to the family dog, a black Pekinese called Mitsy-Moo with a red bow on its head. During the meal, some time before the venison and sour cream sauce, with roast potatoes and mixed vegetables, but after the fish, she put the dog on her lap and covered it with the edge of the table cloth, where it seemed to settle down to an intermittent meal of dribblings as Aunt Ruth failed to coordinate eating and screaming.
Meals went as meals must, from soup to nuts. After a couple of hours, the nose-bags were removed and my other aunt stood up to indicate the end of dinner. The gentlemen were invited to the library for cigars and whiskey, the ladies to the drawing room for sherry and it was suggested that I help cook in the kitchen, which was the signal for me to shoot off to kid around with the serving girls and drink mugs of steaming cocoa.
Aunt Ruth stood up and my other aunt looked at Ruth, went white in the face and said “Oh my God!”
Over her lap, there where there should have been a dress, was a huge hole where the dog had eaten it away. We were looking at stained yellowing knickers, framed by sprouting black and grey pubic hairs and yellowing suspender straps.
Aunt Ruth shrieked like a banshee wailer that's just stepped on a tin-tack.
By the time I got to the kitchen, the butler was sitting at the table, a glass of malt in his hand and tears of laughter pouring down his cheeks.
“I’ll nay see something as funny as that, as long as I live!”
I don't have some great message or pearls of wisdom to impart this time - I just thought I'd cheer you all up with a good story!
And let's face it, with the state of politics and business in general, we bloody well need cheering up!
After the war, my mother, once an Austrian baroness, was reduced to living in a council flat and serving at the local petrol station. As a result, she became obsessed with status and money, largely because we had neither! So I grew up, surrounded by grinding poverty, money worries and family heirlooms that looked remarkably out of place in a coal-fired council flat in Wandsworth.
Occasionally, we were invited to visit branches of my father's family that had not fallen on hard times and this was a real eye-opener for me. Especially the regular visits to one uncle who lived in a real mansion in Scotland.
It was straight out of PG Wodehouse. The whole bit. Servants, grounds, huge house, butler, cook, you name it and they had it. Every time I read a story about Bertie Wooster or the Earl of Emsworth, I picture my uncle and aunt. When I read of butlers serving drinks in the afternoon and cooks working in large kitchens with several wood-fired stoves, I can say that I was there. When I think of Cyril Wellbeloved, the pig-man with no roof to his mouth (in the story ‘Pig-Hooye!’) I can honestly say that I have met that man, or rather his Scottish counterpart, Eric!
Critics of the stories of PG Wodehouse are often to be heard, claiming that his stories are far fetched. No country gentleman is as woolly as the Earl of Emsworth, no aunt as ghastly as Aunt Agatha, no American as vulgar and brash as Donaldson of ‘Donaldson’s Dog-Joy.’ Trust me, I have met them all and, I hasten to add, in my most formative years - if anything, PG's world was but a pale reflection of the real thing!
I met an Earl up there that drove around Scotland in his Austin A35 with a large pig lying on the back seat. He had two sons, one of whom converted to Islam and called himself Mustaffa Abdul; the other put on a floral dress and told the world that he is now The Prophet Uma.
I have even met Baxter, the Efficient One! More than once, come to think of it!
But back to my story - PG Wodehouse describes (in his book ‘Over Seventy - a letter to JP Winkler’) that he once saw a butler almost laugh when PG’s trousers rode up over his shirt whilst trying to sup soup. In Wodehouse’s stories, butlers never laugh, but merely raise an eyebrow or twitch the corner of a lip very, very slightly.
Butlers it seems are subject to a strict code. They may twinkle an eye or two, but only slightly. Rather like those gentlemen that stand guard at the entrance to hotels, wearing the uniform of an admiral in the Romanian Navy, laughing is against 'The Code'.
But in the story I am about to tell you, I once, when just a lad of some nine or ten Summers, saw a butler reduced to tears of laughter.
My Aunt Ruth was visiting from New York and all the family was summoned to meet her at my uncle’s place in Scotland and stay for the weekend. Ruth was a small fat woman who wore dresses that were several sizes too small for her. She didn’t talk so much as scream at the top of her voice and in as harsh a New York accent as you could possibly imagine. Aunt Ruth hounded her husband Louis to death and then erected a huge mausoleum in his honour.
Her husband made a fortune, importing ‘herbs’ from his original home in Sicily and that whole side of the family was exclusively populated by swarthy, thick-set men with Italian-New York accents. They were all called Louis and had wives that screamed. Occasionally, I got to meet these men, referred to as Uncle Louis, Uncle Louis, or Uncle Louis, when they visited Britain on business.
“You’re a good kid!” said one Uncle Louis and thick fingers covered in gold rings and scars would push silly money into my hands, to be rescued later by my father.
“I think we’d better keep that for your education in the future.” he said and I knew he meant food and rent.
Aunt Ruth had come up to Scotland by train and immediately complained that the trains were too small and too slow. She complained about the currency. “How come there ain’t ten shillings in a pound?” she screamed.
“I tried getting a drink at a drug store and they refused to serve me!” she bellowed. “Can someone explain to me what a dime is over here? How many dimes and quarters are there in a pound?” she said in a voice that loosened the ivory handles on the family silver.
Dinner was a formal arrangement with the butler directing two serving girls, neatly turned out in black and white uniforms. The cook was the butler’s wife and she did us all proud with a magnificent meal, which had Aunt Ruth screaming for the recipe, as she dribbled her food down the front of her dress.
“I want to make this for the neighbours. They’ll love it. I make them jars of compotes, but they’ll love this soup!” and I had visions of neighbours, hiding behind their curtains, living in fear of Aunt Ruth and her compotes.
Aunt Ruth had taken a liking to the family dog, a black Pekinese called Mitsy-Moo with a red bow on its head. During the meal, some time before the venison and sour cream sauce, with roast potatoes and mixed vegetables, but after the fish, she put the dog on her lap and covered it with the edge of the table cloth, where it seemed to settle down to an intermittent meal of dribblings as Aunt Ruth failed to coordinate eating and screaming.
Meals went as meals must, from soup to nuts. After a couple of hours, the nose-bags were removed and my other aunt stood up to indicate the end of dinner. The gentlemen were invited to the library for cigars and whiskey, the ladies to the drawing room for sherry and it was suggested that I help cook in the kitchen, which was the signal for me to shoot off to kid around with the serving girls and drink mugs of steaming cocoa.
Aunt Ruth stood up and my other aunt looked at Ruth, went white in the face and said “Oh my God!”
Over her lap, there where there should have been a dress, was a huge hole where the dog had eaten it away. We were looking at stained yellowing knickers, framed by sprouting black and grey pubic hairs and yellowing suspender straps.
Aunt Ruth shrieked like a banshee wailer that's just stepped on a tin-tack.
By the time I got to the kitchen, the butler was sitting at the table, a glass of malt in his hand and tears of laughter pouring down his cheeks.
“I’ll nay see something as funny as that, as long as I live!”
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Not at all sure this would work.
Suppose someone was asked for their thoughts on breaking news or business plan.
How would your AI tool know how the person would respond? The LLM is unlikely to be training on current data so would hallucinate more than normal.
It might work for very generic content but not the sort of thing thought leaders are asked. Especially as the views of many change over time so it's no good your AI tool being trained using historic material.
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Have you used any of the tools out there?
You seem to be posting long winded descriptions of the current state of AI.
I could create a writing tool that could write like me or anyone else tomorrow. It can access the internet and keep up with current topics and read more and faster than I can.
This tool that you want to create already exists and is being overtaken.
I can also create an avatar that looks like me and talks exactly like me, so say the words that I would say if I wanted to.
Everything you've described is old news.
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ChatGPT will do that already.
Create a project, this allows you to upload files and create instructions that apply to all prompts within the project.
Upload samples of your writing, or the writing that you'd like your writing to be like.
Use prompts to analyse the writing and describe the writing style, compare and merge the results.
Add the results of this analysis as an instruction for the prompt.
test and modify to make it write like you, or better than you.
You can use tasks or the API to visit whatever news sources you want, search and analyse stories and then feed these stories to your writing AI.
You could then feed that result to your voice and video AI and create a video of you talking like you about a story that you haven't read.
Create a project, this allows you to upload files and create instructions that apply to all prompts within the project.
Upload samples of your writing, or the writing that you'd like your writing to be like.
Use prompts to analyse the writing and describe the writing style, compare and merge the results.
Add the results of this analysis as an instruction for the prompt.
test and modify to make it write like you, or better than you.
You can use tasks or the API to visit whatever news sources you want, search and analyse stories and then feed these stories to your writing AI.
You could then feed that result to your voice and video AI and create a video of you talking like you about a story that you haven't read.
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