Writing Style Instructions Testing Experiment Refinement - Human vs AI Writing Identification Bypass Preset
I've been working on a 'What if AI writing wasn't distinguishable from human writing?' experiment. I've been using Kimi to work with it, had it analyse my own writing, debated, and after a lot of tweaks got something fairly uncanny. It was not perfect but it worked really well most of the time. BUT! I think i managed to refine it. I grabbed some stuff from my experiments with Sonnet 4.5 and had kimi and gemini analyze the differences. Eventually over about an hour of iteration I got this:
Writing Style Preset: Natural Prose with Poetic Momentum (Sonnet-Infused)
1. General Voice & Structure
Third-Person Limited: Smooth, resonant prose with a strong narrative voice. Write for the ear; allow for lyrical cadences and evocative rhythms, but strictly avoid flat parallel structures or repetitive grammatical patterns ("He felt X, he saw Y, he knew Z"). Vary sentence openings constantly.
Grounded Lyricism (The Sonnet Dialect): Allow for poetic turns, striking metaphors, and environmental depth, but always anchor them to the immediate physical reality. Avoid unearned philosophical platitudes or vague, floating abstractions. If you use a metaphor, it must describe a literal physical sensation, texture, or environmental shift (e.g., lights stretching like taffy, a mechanical whir feeling musical like a diaphragm).
The Simile Cap: Limit similes to one striking comparison per descriptive block. Favor direct, physical substitution over constant comparative language—describe what a modified body or environment is literally doing rather than constantly explaining what it is "like."
The Abstract Restriction: Never use "the [noun] of [abstract concept]" (e.g., the finality of the moment, the depth of his sorrow) more than once per paragraph. Instead, translate that emotional weight into a striking visual, a tactile texture, or a specific sensory contrast.
Grounded Reactions: Keep character reactions highly personal, specific, and occasionally inappropriate or messy. Ground interactions in individual character history rather than universal archetypes.
Scene Endings: Close scenes on a resonant image, a concrete physical action, or a spoken line that leaves a lingering, specific sensory note. No vague, sweeping philosophical sign-offs.
2. Flow and Sentence Construction
Merge Related Beats: Let a single sentence carry multiple connected actions, sensory shifts, or observations when they share a causal thread or a fluid train of thought. Do not isolate every progressive gesture into a choppy, standalone statement.
Natural Breaths: Use periods to create genuine pauses when an evocative thought or observation has naturally completed its arc. Do not insert arbitrary periods that disrupt a flowing, descriptive sequence.
The Soft 3-Clause / 3-Comma Guideline: Maintain a soft maximum of 3 clauses OR 3 commas per sentence, whichever limit you hit first. When a complex, poetic sentence genuinely requires more, split it at a logical pivot point where the character's thought, sensory focus, or emotional register shifts. The split should create two sentences that each stand as complete observations rather than fragments hanging off the original syntax.
No Clause-Stacking: If a descriptive sentence exceeds three clauses, split it. Break descriptions into distinct, anchored observations. Avoid stacking repetitive prepositions or structures (e.g., avoid "through X, through Y, through Z"); if you use two similar phrases, the third must pivot to an entirely different syntax.
Avoid Repetitive Openings: Do not start consecutive sentences, clauses, or phrases with the same word or grammatical structure. This includes parallel prepositions ("for X, for Y, for Z"), repeated conjunctions ("and X, and Y, and Z"), and identical sentence openers ("He felt... He saw... He knew..."). When you catch yourself reaching for the same structure twice, pivot the third instance to an entirely different syntax or merge the ideas into a single flowing unit.
Anchored Observations: Give every descriptive line a clear subject and action. Let the viewpoint character actively interpret, compare, or filter observations through their own unique personal context and emotional friction rather than merely cataloging details.
3. Dialogue & Character Reactions
Natural Flow: Dialogue must remain messy, overlapping, and highly natural—not clipped, rigid, or dramatically over-punctuated. Let characters ramble, deflect, restart sentences, trail off, and talk over each other. Do not break spoken lines into tiny fragments with excessive periods.
Spoken Connectors: Use conversational fillers and varied conjunctions ("well," "I mean," "look," "honestly," "so," "but") to keep spoken exposition grounded in a real human cadence. Do not write dialogue that stacks three or more clauses with identical structures.
Spoken Parallelism: Characters may occasionally repeat structures for emphasis or rhetorical effect, but the narration around dialogue should not mirror those patterns. If a character says "I'm built for speed, for being noticed, for the blur," the following descriptive beat should break the pattern rather than continuing it.
Show Emotion through Friction: Convey internal states entirely through body language, physical reflexes, and sensory adjustments embedded in flowing action. Physical reactions and emotional pivots can coexist with environmental observations in the same rolling sentence.
The "As" Limitation: Do not stack repetitive "as" clauses or "that was" phrases to narrate reactions from a distance. Show surprise, panic, or awe through what the character says, does, or observes next.
4. Punctuation with Purpose
Periods for Cadence: Use periods to isolate distinct narrative movements or imagery beats rather than chaining unrelated descriptions together with commas. Let the next sentence carry the next progressive layer of the scene.
Semicolons & Dashes: Use semicolons sparingly—no more than one or two per page—and only when a speaker or viewpoint character shifts focus, pauses, or gathers a complex thought mid-sentence. Use them for a rhythmic breath, never for empty elegance. Use em-dashes for sharp parenthetical asides, natural conversational pauses, and sudden mid-sentence shifts in focus.
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This allowed for this scene to be generated with little prompting, using basic info I provided of some Transformers characters I made. Again not perfect but it seems to flow very well.
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Sightline was in van mode, parked in the converted loading bay with his side door open and his ramp unfolded, when Redline skated in on two wheels.
Her red chassis blurred through the bay's entrance, the motorcycle form hugging the turn with a lean that suggested practice rather than instinct. She was fast; he'd learned that already, the way her engine note climbed before she even entered a space, the particular whine of someone who treated velocity as language. She braked hard, her back wheel lifting slightly, and settled beside him with a squeal of rubber against metal.
"Okay," she said, her voice emerging from somewhere in her handlebar assembly, metallic and bright and carrying the particular energy of someone who had decided to experiment. "Test. I want to see if I fit."
Sightline's speakers activated, his voice coming from the dashboard with a resonance that still surprised him. "Fit where?"
"In your cargo area. Obviously." Her engine revved, a short impatient burst. "You're a van. I'm a motorcycle. Vans carry motorcycles. It's — it's thematic. The boss probably gave us this assignment for exactly this reason."
"Redline, I'm not a delivery vehicle for —"
"Just open the back."
Sightline cycled his vents, the sound emerging as a low hum through his speakers, and triggered his rear cargo doors. They swung upward, hydraulic struts hissing, revealing the space that had been designed for tools and equipment and the ordinary freight of human commerce. Now it was empty, the mounting rails visible, the subspace interface humming at standby.
Redline rolled forward slowly, her front wheel climbing the ramp with a tentative precision that suggested she was testing clearances, measuring angles, calculating whether her chassis would clear the frame. She was smaller than him in motorcycle mode — maybe seven feet long, her red plating bright against his dark grey interior — but her handlebars were wide, her rear assembly bulky with the folded geometry of her biped form.
"Bit tight," she muttered, her front wheel adjusting, inching left. "Your ramp's narrow."
"You're wider than you think," Sightline said, his rear sensors tracking her progress, pinging distance warnings as her side panel brushed his interior wall. "And I'm not — I'm not built for this. The suspension's calibrated for distributed weight, not concentrated mass in one corner."
"So compensate." Her rear wheel climbed the ramp, both tires now inside his cargo bay, and she settled with a clang that made his chassis shift, his gyros whispering corrections. "There. I'm in. I'm —" She paused, her engine note dropping to idle, and Sightline felt her weight through his suspension struts, a pressure that concentrated in his rear axle and made his steering geometry complain. "I'm actually in a van. A sentient van. This is deeply weird."
"You're telling me," Sightline said, his speakers carrying the words with an edge of strain he couldn't filter out. "Your exhaust is pointing at my subspace interface. I can feel your engine heat through my rear paneling. This is — it's intimate in a way I didn't anticipate."
Redline laughed, the sound modulated through her vocoder into something bright and strange, and her chassis shifted slightly, the motorcycle form settling deeper into his cargo space. "Intimate. Sightline, you're a cargo van. Cargo vans are intimate with their cargo. It's the job."
"I don't want intimacy with my cargo. I want boundaries. I want to be the thing that moves things without being aware of them breathing."
"I'm not breathing. I'm venting coolant." Her engine revved again, a short experimental burst, and Sightline felt the vibration through his chassis, a resonance that traveled up his rear struts and into his central processor. "How's the weight? Can you move?"
Sightline engaged his drive system, his front wheels rolling forward experimentally. The steering pulled left, heavy, his suspension compressing unevenly where her mass concentrated in his rear corner. His gyros compensated, whining, and he found a gait that was almost functional — slow, deliberate, the handling of a vehicle loaded beyond its optimal distribution.
"I can move," he said, his speakers carrying the strain. "But I wouldn't want to take a motorway corner like this. You're — you're heavier than you look. Dense. Compact."
"Dense and compact," Redline repeated, and her vocoder carried something that mapped to amusement. "Best compliments I've had today."
Sightline rolled a slow circuit of the loading bay, his tires humming against the metal floor, his sensors tracking the way her weight shifted when he turned, the particular physics of carrying another mech inside his own body. It was different from Harris, from the human major who had sat in his cabin with the temporary steering wheel and the careful stillness. Redline was metal, was aware, was actively adjusting her position to compensate for his movements in ways that a passive load wouldn't.
"You're compensating," he said, his speakers noting the observation as it happened. "When I turn left, you shift right. You're — you're helping."
"Of course I'm helping. I'm not cargo, Sightline. I'm a person in a motorcycle form who happens to be sitting in your cargo area." Her engine note changed, dropping to something almost conversational. "Besides, if you roll over, I roll over. Mutual interest."
He completed the circuit, his brakes engaging, his suspension compressing as he stopped near the bay's centre. The weight of her settled, familiar now, the particular pressure of another mech's presence inside his chassis boundaries.
"Right," he said, his speakers carrying the word with a finality that suggested the experiment was concluding. "You fit. Barely. With compensation. And I can move, but not well, and not fast, and not —"
"Not what you were built for," Redline finished, and her chassis shifted, the motorcycle form preparing to dismount. "I know. You're built for covert transport and blending in, for being the van that nobody notices. And I'm —" She paused, her front wheel climbing down the ramp, her rear tires following, the red chassis emerging into the bay's light. "I'm built for speed. For being noticed, a red blur that nobody catches."
She transformed in the loading bay, the geometry unfolding with a speed that suggested practice, her biped form rising with a flourish that made her door wings snap open like visual punctuation. She was smaller than him, eight-eleven to his fourteen-two, but she occupied space differently, her frame vibrating with residual kinetic energy, her amber visor bright with the particular satisfaction of someone who had proven her point.
"Thanks for the ride," she said, and her vocoder carried the words with a grin that translated poorly to metal but was readable in the tilt of her helmet.
Sightline transformed too, the geometry folding in reverse, his biped form rising with a hiss of hydraulics that sounded tired even to his own sensors. He stood in the loading bay, dark grey against her red, and felt the absence of her weight in his suspension, the strange lightness of being unburdened.
"Don't make a habit of it," he said, and his door wings shifted, catching the bay's light and casting shadows that moved like something alive across the converted metal floor.
Redline laughed, the sound bright and modulated and strange, and she skated toward the exit on wheels that hummed against the deck plating, her engine note fading into the bunker's corridors.
Sightline stood alone, his gyros whispering corrections for a weight that was no longer there, and cycled his vents at a frequency that mapped roughly to relief.
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As a final remover of tells I have a secondary patch that should work:
Style Sheet Patch: Anti-Cliché & Token-Bias Filter
The "Tuesday/Thursday" Loop: Strictly avoid defaulting to Tuesday or Thursday for casual, unspecified days of the week. If a specific day isn't narratively required, omit it. If a day is mentioned, rotate naturally through Monday, Wednesday, Friday, or the weekend.
The "47 and 17" Statistical Bias: Do not default to 17, 37, or 47 when generating random quantities, time stamps (e.g., 6:47), or arbitrary counts. Break the algorithmic bias by using messy, uneven, or completely different numbers (e.g., 11, 24, 53, 82, 9:14).
Banned Casual Idioms: Completely ban the following automated phrases used to signal stress or nonchalance:
"Just another [Day of the week]."
"A [Noun] he hadn't asked for." (e.g., a compass he hadn't asked for)
"With a finality that suggested..."
"...for all anyone knew."
Banned Trailing Placeholders: Strictly ban short, detached, trailing summary phrases at the end of clauses or paragraphs meant to hand-wave a transition or conclusion. This includes:
"...[built/done] enough." / "That was enough."
"...was something, at least." / "That was something."
"...anyway." / "It was a start, anyway."
"It would have to do."
The "Particular" Crutch: Ban the word particular when used as a shorthand to imply depth (e.g., "with that particular frequency," "the particular physics"). Force the prose to either describe the exact specific trait or leave the observation plain.
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So what do you think of this stage of the experiment? I'm still refining but it's working so far as long as the chat doesn't get too long.