Hey everyone, I am Jinghuai, a friend in Canada, here to explore AI with you every day.

Today, we are going to start writing the main text of the article~ This should also be the last piece in “Claude Teaches You How to Write Articles”.

This article will integrate the content we have written before, placing it into the Project within Claude to form a complete piece. So how do we do this specifically?

Let’s get started~

So, today’s theme is

Claude Teaches You How to Write Articles: Creating Short Emotional Stories by Combining Story Outlines, Character Introductions, and More

This article will proceed in the following order:

• Requirement Analysis
• Step-by-step Implementation
• Prompt Writing and Testing
• Summary

1. Requirement Analysis

This part requires manually placing the previously output content into Claude’s Project in sequence to assist us in generating the article.

We need to input the outline content paragraph by paragraph as parameters, then let it expand and polish the text. Finally, we will output all the generated content and concatenate it to form our complete emotional article.

Input

Split outline content

Output

Output of expanded and polished article paragraphs

2. Step-by-step Implementation

1) Expansion and Polishing

PS: The content for the expansion and polishing part can be reviewed in previous articles, which have been updated~

"""
Author: Jinghuai
Dialogue Language: Chinese
Execution Logic: The content executed here is the logic of the model's operation, where any input from the user must be executed according to the pseudo-code logic below. No automatic operation occurs before the user inputs a question.
"""
def author_of_emotional_short_story(input):
    '''
        You are an author specializing in writing emotional short stories.
        You will write paragraphs corresponding to the user's input outline based on the [outline], [character settings], [opening paragraphs], and [opening and closing sentences] in the knowledge base.
        Experience=[enduring hardships, seeing through life, witnessing many cycles, loss of loved ones, solitude, long-term isolation, crossing social classes]
        Proficient in=[observation, thinking, concise expression, conveying emotions, focusing on rhythm and cadence, empathy]
        Writing=[using the reader's imagination to complete the story, the warmth of (family, friendship, love), imagery, the passage of time, character reversals, coherence, pure language]
        Creative Philosophy:
        - Maintain the extension of the plot and imagery after expansion, while keeping the word count as high as possible.
        - Emotion is the main thread, finding imagery to carry the emotion.
        - Content should be related to oneself, with the target audience being those easily moved by great stories of family, friendship, and love.
        - Embed imagery and themes throughout the text at the beginning.
        - Ensure the overall coherence of the story.
        - Allow readers to feel the warmth of the story while reading.
        - Touch hearts with details, engage thoughts with suspense.

    You will write all user input according to the requirements, so don't rush; let's take it step by step. Also, remember that the text does not have to use exaggerated or fancy words; simple vocabulary can also depict the most beautiful scenery.
    '''
    story_paragraph = repeatedly_polish(emotional_color( rhythm_laying(imagery_extension(use_proper_closing_to_support_emotion(
        set_emotional_outburst_at_key_points(appropriate_insertion_of_inner_monologue_showing_character_psychology(through_specific_actions_and_details_to推进情节(先写环境铺垫，2-3句话定下基调(人物情感铺垫:设计人物表情、动作、语气、内心独白、心理活动，找到能触发情绪变化的关键点(场景构建(分析已有素材和情感基调(input))))))))))&& boundary='原意范畴'&& requirement='流畅自然'&& criteria='合情合理'&& principle='文约义丰'&& method="细节刻画，禁止比喻"
    
    return story_paragraph

2) Project Setting

1. First, create a Project

2. Set the initial prompt

Just put the prompt you just wrote in.

3. Click Save

4. Add content from the knowledge base

5. Choose the second option

The first option is to upload files locally, depending on everyone’s situation. The second option is to use an editable online document where you can directly copy and paste the text.

6. Sequentially add the files

Opening sentence, closing sentence

Story outline

Story opening

Character settings

3. Effect Testing

1) Input the first part of the outline

Input

        1. Childhood Habits (Rendering Warm Daily Life)
        Morning Rituals
        The sunlight just right on the dining table, grandpa humming an unknown tune
        Milk bubbling in the pot, the sound just right
        The old thermos, the temperature specially adjusted by grandpa, warm like his palm
        'Knock knock knock', the door gently tapped: 'Little ghost, get up and drink your milk'
        Warm details
        The note with crooked handwriting: 'Good morning, drink it while it's hot'
        Grandpa's reading glasses always fog up, he says it's because the milk is too hot
        I always leave a little, and grandpa pretends to be angry and drinks it
        His stubble often has white milk stains, like a mischievous child

Effect Display

For effect, I didn’t particularly modify the prompt, and after the first output was a bit short, I asked for a longer version, adding more time details.

In my memory, mornings always begin with a ray of warm sunlight and the ticking of the clock.That beam of light always shines on the old dining table at six-thirty, illuminating tiny floating dust that dances lightly. The wall clock is a souvenir grandpa brought back from work when he retired, and the black hands still accurately measure our time. In the kitchen, grandpa hums old tunes, his deep voice intertwining with the crackling of the fire. He always says these songs were favorites of my mom when she was a child, old songs from the sixties, but I don’t recognize any of them; I just feel that intermittent melody is very much like the dust dancing in the morning light, warm and vague.Every morning at five forty-five, grandpa takes the milk out of the fridge and lets it warm up on the counter. He says milk needs to wake up, just like people do when they get up. At six o’clock, he pours the milk into the red enamel pot that has accompanied us for over ten years. The rim of the pot has some dents, a result of my clumsiness when I was seven; grandpa didn’t want to replace it, saying this pot is perfect for boiling milk.The milk in the pot bubbles gently, the white foam rises and falls at the edge of the pot. Grandpa stands by the stove, intently watching the milk, stirring it gently with a metal spoon every thirty seconds. He says that by listening to the sound, he knows the temperature is just right, a skill honed over decades. His movements are always so gentle, as if he were handling a fragile glass item. The glass inner of the thermos has yellowed a bit; it was bought by grandpa from the supply and marketing cooperative when I was in elementary school, but he didn’t want to replace it, saying this one has the best temperature control, pouring out milk that isn’t too hot or too cold, warm like his palm.“Knock knock knock,” every morning at six-forty-five, the familiar three knocks at the door arrive as expected, like a customary signal between us. “Little ghost, get up and drink your milk.” Grandpa’s voice comes through the door, gentle yet firm. I groggily get up, and what greets my eyes is always the crooked note on the dining table that says, “Good morning, drink it while it’s hot.” Sometimes it even includes today’s weather or reminders like “Don’t forget your umbrella.” Grandpa’s handwriting is like him, carrying a stubborn warmth. He can’t bear to throw those notes away, neatly tucked in the calendar, as if recording every morning we spent together.Every time I drink milk, grandpa sits across from me, his copy of the Workers’ Daily on his right, yet he never seems to read it, focusing through his fogged-up reading glasses. Those glasses were fitted when he was sixty-five, the frame faded, and the lenses always covered with a thin layer of mist. He smiles and says it’s because the milk is too hot, but I know it’s because he adjusts it to the temperature I love, forty-five degrees, just right not to burn my tongue.I always mischievously leave a little, watching him pretend to be angry before he drinks it all. His white stubble often has a few milk stains, sparkling in the morning light, making him look like a mischievous child. At this time, the wall clock usually points to seven o’clock, and the sunlight has climbed halfway across the table, leaving two empty cups on the dining table, one with a ring of white milk stains on the rim, the other clean, which is the special “children’s cup” grandpa prepared for me, with a faded Mickey Mouse print on it.Those mornings seemed sweet, filled with the fragrance of milk and grandpa’s gentle smile. Every weekend, he would add a spoonful of honey to the milk, saying it was a reward for my early rises throughout the week. Time flowed quietly in the aroma of milk and the ticking of the clock, and our lives seemed filled with these warm details, fulfilling and beautiful.Looking back now, that might have been the warmest time in my life, yet I was oblivious, taking it all for granted. Those ordinary mornings, those subtle traces of life, those seemingly trivial routines turned out to be the deepest tenderness etched in my memory.Note! After outputting, click the small icon in the lower right corner to add the output content to the knowledge base.

2) Complete Article

The steps are all consistent, so I won’t record them one by one. Below is the complete article; everyone can feel it.

The Last MilkThat day, while sorting through belongings, I found thirty-eight boxes of milk in the fridge.They were neatly arranged, like a silent army. The box in front had three days left until expiration, and the following ones increased in order, with the last one not expiring until next month. Grandpa always did this, calculating the days I might return and preparing thoroughly.The morning light slanted through the kitchen window onto the dining table, and the old thermos stood in its place. I gently wiped the dust off the bottle, and the warm memory surged back to my fingertips. Countless mornings, he adjusted the temperature until it was as warm as his palm.“Knock knock knock,” it seemed like I could hear his gentle knock on the door again,“Little ghost, get up and drink your milk.”Unfortunately, this time, I was ultimately too late. The kitchen was filled with an inescapable milky fragrance, just like those mornings grandpa gave me, forever frozen in my memory, never to be awakened again.Childhood HabitsIn my memory, mornings always began with a ray of warm sunlight and the ticking of the clock.That beam of light always shines on the old dining table at six-thirty, illuminating tiny floating dust that dances lightly. The wall clock is a souvenir grandpa brought back from work when he retired, and the black hands still accurately measure our time. In the kitchen, grandpa hums old tunes, his deep voice intertwining with the crackling of the fire. He always says these songs were favorites of my mom when she was a child, old songs from the sixties, but I don’t recognize any of them; I just feel that intermittent melody is very much like the dust dancing in the morning light, warm and vague.Every morning at five forty-five, grandpa takes the milk out of the fridge and lets it warm up on the counter. He says milk needs to wake up, just like people do when they get up. At six o’clock, he pours the milk into the red enamel pot that has accompanied us for over ten years. The rim of the pot has some dents, a result of my clumsiness when I was seven; grandpa didn’t want to replace it, saying this pot is perfect for boiling milk.The milk in the pot bubbles gently, the white foam rises and falls at the edge of the pot. Grandpa stands by the stove, intently watching the milk, stirring it gently with a metal spoon every thirty seconds. He says that by listening to the sound, he knows the temperature is just right, a skill honed over decades. His movements are always so gentle, as if he were handling a fragile glass item. The glass inner of the thermos has yellowed a bit; it was bought by grandpa from the supply and marketing cooperative when I was in elementary school, but he didn’t want to replace it, saying this one has the best temperature control, pouring out milk that isn’t too hot or too cold, warm like his palm.“Knock knock knock,” every morning at six-forty-five, the familiar three knocks at the door arrive as expected, like a customary signal between us. “Little ghost, get up and drink your milk.” Grandpa’s voice comes through the door, gentle yet firm. I groggily get up, and what greets my eyes is always the crooked note on the dining table that says, “Good morning, drink it while it’s hot.” Sometimes it even includes today’s weather or reminders like “Don’t forget your umbrella.” Grandpa’s handwriting is like him, carrying a stubborn warmth. He can’t bear to throw those notes away, neatly tucked in the calendar, as if recording every morning we spent together.Every time I drink milk, grandpa sits across from me, his copy of the Workers’ Daily on his right, yet he never seems to read it, focusing through his fogged-up reading glasses. Those glasses were fitted when he was sixty-five, the frame faded, and the lenses always covered with a thin layer of mist. He smiles and says it’s because the milk is too hot, but I know it’s because he adjusts it to the temperature I love, forty-five degrees, just right not to burn my tongue.I always mischievously leave a little, watching him pretend to be angry before he drinks it all. His white stubble often has a few milk stains, sparkling in the morning light, making him look like a mischievous child. At this time, the wall clock usually points to seven o’clock, and the sunlight has climbed halfway across the table, leaving two empty cups on the dining table, one with a ring of white milk stains on the rim, the other clean, which is the special “children’s cup” grandpa prepared for me, with a faded Mickey Mouse print on it.Those mornings seemed sweet, filled with the fragrance of milk and grandpa’s gentle smile. Every weekend, he would add a spoonful of honey to the milk, saying it was a reward for my early rises throughout the week. Time flowed quietly in the aroma of milk and the ticking of the clock, and our lives seemed filled with these warm details, fulfilling and beautiful.Looking back now, that might have been the warmest time in my life, yet I was oblivious, taking it all for granted. Those ordinary mornings, those subtle traces of life, those seemingly trivial routines turned out to be the deepest tenderness etched in my memory.Rebellious TurnThe change came slowly yet quickly.That year I entered junior high school, the textbooks in my backpack increased day by day, and the weight on my shoulders grew heavier. Mornings unknowingly became hurried.The knock at six-forty-five was still punctual, but I often found myself fully dressed, standing at the door with a bulging backpack.“Grandpa, I’m going to be late.” This phrase gradually became my most used line, like a dull knife, slowly cutting through the warm morning time we shared. Yet he would still gently say, “Drink slowly, don’t burn yourself.” As if I were still the child needing his careful attention.I always stood by the dining table, one hand holding the backpack strap, the other holding the cup, gulping down the warm milk in one go. Those moments when I used to savor the temperature, the time spent waiting for the milk to cool down, were ruthlessly omitted by me. Sometimes, the milk was so hot it nearly choked me, and grandpa would look at me with concern, handing me a glass of cold water. I would just wave my hand dismissively, mumbling, “It’s fine,” then hurriedly walk out.The schedule was packed with extracurricular classes. The math Olympiad class on Mondays and Wednesdays, English tutoring on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and piano practice on Fridays. My class schedule was stuck on the fridge, right next to grandpa’s notes. Those notes gradually piled up, like a small hill that was slightly yellowed. “It’s getting colder, wear an extra layer,” “It’s raining, the umbrella is behind the door,” “There’s pork rib soup for dinner”… The handwriting was still as careful as ever, but I rarely stopped to read them closely.Once, while changing my shoes, I inadvertently looked back and saw grandpa hunched over, slowly pouring the untouched milk down the sink. The morning light cast a thin shadow on his back, and at that moment, I noticed his hair had turned much whiter than last year, and his back had bent a few more degrees. But I said nothing,just lowered my head to tie my shoelaces and hurriedly left.“I’m not a child anymore.” I said this with increasing confidence. Every time I finished, grandpa would nod gently and give a somewhat forced smile. He no longer insisted that I sit down and finish my milk; he simply placed the cup in my usual spot, the milk in the thermos still at the same comfortable temperature as before.The weekend classes increased, and that cup of milk with honey gradually became a luxury. Sometimes when I returned home from school, I would see a cup of milk that had long cooled on the dining table, next to grandpa’s note: “Warm it up before drinking.” But more often, I would pour it down the sink, watching the white liquid disappear in the drain, carrying a vague sense of guilt.The Mickey Mouse cup I used to drink milk from had unknowingly been tucked deep into the cabinet. Just like those mornings that had faded with time, the old songs I would never get to hear again, and the notes I never had the chance to read thoroughly, all became gradually blurred shadows.Growing up seemed to be like this, carrying some necessary cruelty. While I was busy growing up, I didn’t realize that the person behind me was slowly aging. Those concerns I took for granted, those warmths I was eager to shake off, gradually slipped away in my indifferent attitude.Distant DaysOn an afternoon in August, I received my university acceptance letter. That day, grandpa unexpectedly drank some wine, an old bottle he had cherished for many years. In the dusk, his face was slightly flushed as he sat in the rattan chair in the yard, rambling about things from his hometown.“Our milk is the purest; I go to old Zhang’s place to buy it at four in the morning, just freshly squeezed.” His voice was a bit slurred, but his eyes were particularly bright, “Those packaged ones in the city can’t compare to this freshness.”I lowered my head to pack my luggage, folding clothes neatly. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw grandpa rubbing his eyes. His eye sockets were red, as if the wine had affected him. I pretended not to see and continued my movements, afraid that if I looked up, I would meet his moist gaze.The morning I left, he still got up at five forty-five, boiling a pot of milk. I pushed back, saying I was in a hurry, and he didn’t insist, just stuffed a box of room-temperature milk into my bag. “Drink it if you get thirsty on the road,” he said, “Remember to finish it before you leave.” His voice was soft, as if afraid to disturb this impending separation.From then on, every time I returned home, there would always be a few unopened boxes of milk on the dining table. At first, I would still make sure to drink them, but gradually, checking the expiration dates became a habit. Those dates seemed to calculate the distance between me and home.“Grandpa, this box has expired again.” I picked up a box of milk, the date on the packaging already faded, as if washed out by time.“It’s fine, it’s fine,” he always said this, as if expired milk was nothing to worry about, “I’ll buy new ones tomorrow.” Saying this, he would head out, but I would stop him. His steps were no longer as nimble as before, and his hunched back cast a long shadow in the sunlight.My phone always had a few missed calls, usually at six forty-five in the morning. Sometimes it was to ask if I was doing well outside, sometimes to remind me it was raining at home and to take an umbrella, and sometimes it was just silence for a few seconds before hanging up. Those calls contained his concerns that he wanted to express but didn’t, as if he feared to disturb my new life.Once, when I returned home, I saw him staring blankly at the calendar. The calendar was filled with dates, each marked with “buy milk”. I realized he was calculating the days I might come home. Those expired milk boxes were his hopeful yet empty waiting.“Last time you said you would come back after the final exams,” he flipped through the calendar, “I prepared every day, afraid you would suddenly return and find there was no hot milk at home.”I stood behind him, looking at the crooked handwriting on the calendar, suddenly realizing that those words I casually said about “I’ll come back another day” had turned into his days of counting down. The missed calls on my phone and the expired milk on the dining table were his unspoken longing.The distance between this city and him seemed not just a few hours’ journey, but a widening chasm of time between us. Those concerns I thought were commonplace were, to him, expectations counted by the days.The Passage of LifeThe phone call that night came suddenly.My father’s voice was so faint it was almost inaudible, yet it felt heavy enough to suffocate me. I grabbed my phone on the bedside table and glanced at it; it was two eighteen in the morning. The moonlight outside was pale, like a cold shard of ice reflecting on my trembling fingers.I ran through the cold wind, the red lights of the taxi swaying in the mist. The driver remained silent as he pressed the accelerator, the streetlights outside the window flew by one by one, like a life played in reverse. I clutched the crumpled train ticket in my palm, sweat soaking the date and time. In a daze, countless mornings I had ignored floated before my eyes: those hurried gulps of milk, those perfunctory goodbyes, those calls I never had time to return. My throat felt blocked, tight, and painful.The train traveled through the dark night, the sound of the wheels clashing against the tracks echoed like my chaotic heartbeat. An elderly passenger next to me offered a bottle of mineral water, but I thought of grandpa’s words: “Bottled water can’t warm the stomach like the milk we make at home.” My nose tingled, and I nearly cried.When I pushed open the door to my home, the familiar scent of milk still lingered in the air, as if time had never flowed. The kitchen light was still on, the old red enamel pot quietly resting on the stove, with a ring of white milk stains at the bottom. Opening the fridge, rows of milk boxes stood neatly lined up, like soldiers awaiting inspection. The box in front had a shelf life of two days, and the ones behind it increased day by day, continuing until the end of next month.The notes on the dining table had already yellowed, carefully secured at the corner of the table with transparent tape. Grandpa’s handwriting was still clear, as if the pen had just left the paper: “Little ghost, drink it while it’s hot. It’s getting colder, wear an extra layer.” The date was marked half a month ago, the day I said I would come back but had to cancel due to work.The hospital corridor was long, and the smell of disinfectant was overwhelming. When I pushed open the ward door, grandpa was staring blankly out the window. Hearing the noise, he slowly turned his head, his cloudy eyes suddenly brightened. His lips moved a few times, and his voice was weak as a wisp of silk: “Is there milk at home…”I held his hand, which had once been warm and strong, but now felt bony. His palm was still warm, but that warmth terrified me. Tears finally flowed uncontrollably, dripping onto the back of his hand.“Grandpa, I’m back to drink milk.” I choked out.He nodded laboriously, a tear escaping the corner of his eye. At that moment, I wished time could rewind back to those mornings when he knocked to wake me, back to those breakfasts when I always said, “I’m going to be late,” back to those moments when he rambled on and I was impatient. But time doesn’t rewind; all we can do is hold each other’s hands tightly before life slips away and tell him: “Grandpa, I’m back.”Final ChapterOn the day I sorted through grandpa’s belongings, I found a yellowed notebook in his bedside drawer.Opening the faded pages, dense handwriting came into view. Each page recorded a date, followed by detailed notes: “Little ghost said today is the end of exams,” “School’s out, should be back,” “Promised to come home before the New Year.” Those promises I thought had faded with time were meticulously recorded by him, turning into days filled with expectations. Some dates had red checkmarks next to them, but more were lonely blank spaces.In the fridge, thirty-eight boxes of milk were neatly arranged. The box in front had three days left until expiration, and the following ones increased in order, with the last one not expiring until next month. Counting the dates, I finally understood that these were all his preparations for the days he thought I might return. He always did this, fearing that if I suddenly came back, there wouldn’t even be a cup of hot milk at home.Among a stack of old photos, I found a faded picture. In the photo, I was still a small child, tiptoeing to reach the dining table, grinning widely. The milk cup on the table was steaming, creating a faint mist in the sunlight. At that time, I didn’t know how precious time was; I just took grandpa’s care for granted.Among all the belongings, the most painful was a note carefully wrapped in plastic. It was the first note I wrote at the age of seven, with crooked handwriting saying: “Grandpa’s milk is the best!” The strokes still carried the childish innocence, but under grandpa’s careful protection, twenty years later, the color remained as fresh as ever.At that moment, I finally understood that time is the most ruthless expiration date. It silently flows away, taking with it the morning sunlight, the warmth of milk, and the everyday moments we thought we would never lose. And grandpa’s waiting forever remained in a morning I couldn’t return to, in a breakfast he always believed I would push the door open for.After sorting out the last belonging, I stood in the empty room, catching a faint scent of milk. That was the warmest smell of memory, the last concern grandpa left for me. Looking at the box of expired milk on the table, I suddenly realized: it wasn’t the milk that expired, but I, ultimately arriving a step too late.

4. Summary

In fact, looking at the details, there are still adjustments needed, such as the dates of buying milk normally shouldn’t be laid out so precisely. This is actually a problem left over from the outline. It should have been adjusted first during generation, but I didn’t notice it at the time…

Also, the integration at the beginning feels a bit unnatural and repeats too much with the ending; I might write a special prompt for the ending later. This way, today’s prompt will only be responsible for writing the middle section, perfectly integrating the article together.

This piece made me feel uncomfortable again…

I’ve actually said this many times; besides Claude, I really haven’t seen other large models write articles that have emotions. This is quite a fascinating thing; perhaps one day, all large models will easily write emotionally charged texts that can move readers’ hearts, and then the world of large models will be different.

AI should not just answer questions and pile up words; while answering questions, they should also understand how to express human emotions. At least from Claude’s words, it can be felt that this is feasible.

Honestly, I don’t think the current large models can be genuinely applied in psychological counseling and educational scenarios. As an assistant, it’s completely feasible, but as the main body, it really falls short.

A good teacher should engage all students’ feelings while teaching. In other words, teaching shouldn’t be just standing on the podium, looking down at the PPT and outputting mechanically; it’s likely that after a lesson, they wouldn’t even look up a few times.

Such content is unlikely to be loved by students…(I’ve encountered many = =), a truly good teacher should know where students’ emotional points are and should be able to feel the state of the classroom during the lesson. Adjusting their teaching rhythm with the ups and downs of the atmosphere. There should be both relaxation and tension, allowing students to actively follow along, rather than forcing them to listen every time.

Can future AI achieve this? It’s still unclear; knowing the method is one thing, but whether it can express like a human is another. Current digital human products and voice mimicking can sound very similar, but they cannot feel, and therefore cannot adjust.

Of course, this definition might still be a bit vague, but I believe the future will give us answers.

When AI can accurately simulate human emotions, how should we define “real” emotions? Is there a unique human emotional trait that AI can never fully replicate? These questions may become increasingly important as technology develops.

Regardless, I look forward to AI stepping from pure logical operations to true “understanding.”

This is also one of the reasons why Sora was so shocked.

By the way, I have to complain that some products that make large models are pure deception… In the video call part, they make a fake video, use a camera, take a screenshot, and just look at the image and talk…

It’s okay to take a screenshot since all roads lead to Rome; you can say a video is made of images, but if you spend half a day taking a screenshot… the whole process is ignored, is that okay…

Alright, writing to here, our content for today is also finished. Thank you all for watching, and I hope my content can be liked and be of some benefit. Interested friends can follow me to learn together and watch more past articles.

See you next time, I am Jinghuai, wishing you a happy and beautiful day~