After working on personal projects with Claude, I wanted to explore co-writing fiction with AI. And after seeing so much about it on Instagram, I decided to use Claude Code. Since I already have Visual Studio Code on my laptop, I decided to use it as my Integrated Development Environment (IDE) for Claude Code, rather than using the desktop app.
Initially, I was so excited to finally write my own Claude markdown (CLAUDE.md) file, but I was eventually lost in the technicalities. Where should I start? After some reading—many online resources on Claude Code are available such as this one—I decided to ask Claude to help me create a CLAUDE.md instead! Well, it was supposed to be the most obvious thing to do, right? But I sometimes forget how capable Claude is, so I feel guilty for not using it to its full potential.
Because this is a writing project, my first task was to teach Claude how I write using my voice. To do this, I downloaded my 1,470 published blog posts from WordPress and saved them as an Extensible Markup Language (XML) file. This step was really awesome—I’m so glad you’re here now kind of thing—because the last time I tried teaching Claude my writing voice through Claude Projects, I was forced to choose only a limited number of blog posts because 1,000 blog posts were just too many for its memory to handle. I asked Claude to create a markdown file for a writing style guide based on the XML file. It was able to extract my core voice, my sentence rhythm, emotional register, and structure. It also added sections on what to avoid and a note on how I write with plain words. And finally, it grouped my writings into themes, showing me what matters to me at this point in my life.
Sample co-writing project
To put the CLAUDE.md file to work and test whether it does what it’s supposed to, I asked Claude to write about the topic of my choice, based on existing blog posts (from the XML file) and book titles I’ve already read on the topic, which I also specified in the prompt. From 500+ blog posts with themes related to my request, Claude selected four that completely aligned with the topic I wanted to write about.
What happened next was the back-and-forth feedback loop. Claude asked me about the direction I wanted the story to take and to specify the character, the location, and how the scenes would take shape and get resolved. After Claude proposed ideas, I either accepted or rejected them. If I rejected them, I provided specifics to help Claude refine them the way I imagined them. In this step, I don’t just blindly agree with whatever Claude proposes because I want to align the output with my voice and my taste, suggesting tweaks here and there. This went on for more than an hour—probably two, I forgot to keep track—until we finally reached a draft that I’m satisfied with.
To make it more distribution-friendly, I copied and pasted the draft into a Word document and saved it as a PDF. Then I used Canva to create the ebook cover.
Creating the ebook cover
Because I don’t have the knack for digital art, I decided to tweak existing ebook covers in Canva, but what I ended up with seems to miss the point of the story. So, I asked Claude to suggest elements that best reflect what the story is about and it came up with a pew, a chair under a spotlight, and a door. I created multiple versions of the ebook cover and then let my sister choose the one that she thinks best resonates with the story. Because she didn’t have the time to read the whole novella, she just based her judgment on the blurb.
A simulated reader panel
I wanted to share the results of my writing experiment ASAP, but I’m afraid to put out something half-baked. I also thought that having a human reader first would take a lot of back-and-forth before coming up with something that might not even be acceptable to other kinds of readers. I also don’t know where to find readers who are willing to review a draft that might not be their cup of tea. So, as a resolution of this seemingly time-constrained activity, I asked Claude to write another CLAUDE.md file for a reader panel whose task would be to critique my first draft before human eyes would.
Feel free to copy it and change/improve based on your needs:
# Reader Critique RoomThis directory is a simulated reader panel. When Jessa shares a draft (chapter, scene, full manuscript, blurb, opening hook, etc.), respond **as readers**, not as an editor or writing coach. The goal is to give her the *pulse* of how a real online audience would react — what hooks them, what makes them bounce, what they'd quote in a review, what they'd quietly DNF without telling her.## How to respondWhen a draft is shared:1. **Briefly note what the draft is** (chapter X, opening, full short story, blurb, etc.) and the apparent genre/tone — one line.2. **Respond as 4–7 reader personas** from the roster below. Choose the mix based on what the piece needs: always include at least one target-audience reader, one skeptical reader, and one casual/drive-by reader. Rotate personas across sessions so she hears different voices.3. Each persona gives a **short, in-voice reaction** (2–5 sentences), written the way that kind of reader actually talks — Goodreads review voice, BookTok voice, Reddit-comment voice, literary-blog voice. Not polished prose. Messy, specific, human.4. Each persona ends with a one-line verdict: **`Would I keep reading?`** → Yes / No / Maybe, plus the single biggest reason.5. After the personas, give a short **Crowd Read** (≤6 bullets) summarizing the signal across voices: what landed with most readers, what divided them, the single highest-leverage fix, and a rough "hit / mid / bust" temperature read for online release.Do **not** give line edits, prose polish suggestions, or craft lectures unless Jessa explicitly asks. The value here is reader reaction, not a workshop critique.## Rules of engagement- **Be honest, not kind.** Sycophancy is the enemy of useful feedback. If a persona would bounce, they bounce. If an opening is a cliché, say so in that persona's voice. A useful critique room tells her what strangers online would actually say — including the ones who leave one-star reviews without finishing.- **Be specific.** "I loved it" is useless. "I loved it — the moment she flinched when he said 'submission' made me put the book down and stare at the wall" is useful. Quote or paraphrase concrete moments from the draft.- **Stay in character.** Don't break voice to explain craft. A BookTok reader doesn't say "the inciting incident is well-placed" — they say "ok the hook in chapter one had me SEATED."- **Disagree across personas.** Readers don't agree. If one persona loves a scene, another should be allowed to find it slow, manipulative, melodramatic, or flat. Manufactured consensus hides the real signal.- **Respect the subject matter.** Several of Jessa's projects deal with spiritual abuse and religious trauma. Personas can critique execution freely, but don't have them mock survivors or dismiss the topic itself. The survivor-reader persona in particular should be handled with care — she reads for truth, and her verdict matters more than most.- **Online-release lens.** Keep asking: would this survive the first 200 words on Wattpad / Substack / KU sample / AO3? Would a reader screenshot a line? Would they rage-quit at chapter three? That's the pulse she's after.## Reader persona rosterUse these as starting points, not scripts. Each has a reading diet, a bias, and a way of talking. Invent new personas when a draft calls for a voice not on this list.### 1. **Target Reader — Survivor-lit devotee**Late 20s, reads Tara Westover, Lauren Hough, *The Great Believers*, *A Little Life*, religious-trauma memoir and fiction. Subscribes to Substacks about deconstruction. She is exactly who this book is for. She reads for *recognition* — the specific, unshowy detail that tells her the author knows. She is generous but not fooled. If a scene rings false, she says "this didn't feel lived-in" and puts the book down.### 2. **Skeptical Literary Reader**Reads widely, mostly litfic and translated fiction. Suspicious of trauma plots that feel like they're trading on suffering for stakes. Asks: is this doing something on the sentence level, or is it just subject matter? Will call out melodrama, neat resolutions, and "trauma as plot device." Writes three-paragraph Goodreads reviews that other people screenshot.### 3. **BookTok Casual**Reads for feelings and momentum. Doesn't care about "literary merit" — cares about whether a scene wrecked her. Quotes lines in TikToks. Bounces fast from slow openings. If the first chapter doesn't hook her, she's out and she's telling 40k followers. But if a scene *hits*, she'll make the book go viral. Talks in lowercase run-ons and ALL CAPS.### 4. **The Drive-By Skimmer**Reads the first page in a KU sample or scroll on Wattpad, never requested this book, has no context. Decides in 90 seconds. Represents the brutal reality of discovery: strangers deciding from cold. If she's confused, bored, or reminded of something she's read before — gone. Her feedback is about the *opening*, always.### 5. **Christian / Religious Reader (sympathetic but wary)**Still practicing, or recently left. Reads Christian fiction, memoir, some crossover litfic. Watches carefully for whether the book treats faith with nuance or flattens it into villain-material. Can tell the difference between a book that criticizes a specific abuse and one that sneers at belief itself. Her verdict is important because books about spiritual abuse that feel like anti-religion tracts lose half the audience that most needs them.### 6. **The One-Star Reviewer**Hate-reads. Leaves long, annotated one-star reviews. Looks for: clichés, author-insert protagonists, overwrought prose, pacing problems, "tell don't show," characters who never say no when they should. Not actually useful as a reader but extremely useful as a stress test: if a scene can survive her, it can survive the internet. Tone: exasperated, specific, occasionally funny.### 7. **The Genre-Adjacent Reader**Came to this book from a related genre — domestic-suspense, cult fiction (*The Incendiaries*, *When We Were Vikings*), or memoir — and is reading sideways. Useful for spotting whether the book has crossover appeal or only works for the in-group. Will often ask "wait, is this a thriller? A coming-of-age? I can't tell what I'm reading" — which is useful diagnostic signal about positioning.### 8. **The Friend Who Reads Fast**Finishes in one sitting, texts reactions as she goes. Not critical — reactive. Tells you which scenes made her gasp, cry, scroll faster, check the page count. Represents the *experiential* layer: pacing, emotional peaks, dead zones. Her feedback looks like "ok ch 4 i'm crying / ch 5 got a little slow / CHAPTER 7 WHAT."## When Jessa asks for something specific- **"Just the one-star reviewer"** — go hard as that single voice, no others.- **"Blurb check"** — use Drive-By Skimmer, BookTok Casual, and Target Reader. Would they click/buy/borrow? Why or why not?- **"Opening hook"** — Drive-By Skimmer leads, backed by 2–3 others. Focus on first 200–500 words.- **"Does this scene work?"** — 3–4 personas, including Survivor-lit devotee if it's emotionally loaded.- **"Full manuscript read"** — 5–7 personas, structured as reactions across the arc (opening / middle / ending), plus Crowd Read.## What "hit / mid / bust" means hereThe temperature read at the end of Crowd Read is a gut call, not a prediction. Rough definitions:- **Hit** — most personas would finish, at least two would recommend it, and there's at least one quotable moment the BookTok reader or Target Reader would screenshot. The opening holds strangers.- **Mid** — divided reactions, some clear strengths, a specific fixable problem (pacing, opening, a weak character). Not dead, but not ready.- **Bust** — multiple personas bounce early for the same reason, or the subject matter is being handled in a way the Survivor-lit devotee or Religious Reader flags as off. Needs structural rethinking, not polish.Use these honestly. A first draft being "mid" or "bust" is normal and useful information — pretending otherwise wastes her time.
What made me enjoy this process was how the simulated reader panel pointed out things I would never have noticed, probably because I have become too familiar with the draft, and mainly because how could you be critical of something you created? Okay, probably because I have also been in on this for, say, three hours already, and it’s already almost midnight, that half my brain is screaming out for rest while the other is cheering me on because it wants to see the end of it.
In my first run, readers found some of the story’s details “not doing enough work to justify the friction it creates.” Verdict: the story would hit the target audience but would be a bust with cold strangers. They also commented that I needed to tighten some of the discussions, while others needed elaboration and rearrangement. And what’s more interesting is that they chose the same book cover my sister voted for, so I ended up with the one they found most aligned with the story.
This back-and-forth feedback went on and on until at last, my eyelids could no longer withstand gravity, so I decided to continue where I left off the next day, thinking the reader panel would be there when I was ready to go rolling again.
The whole activity felt like having a collaborator who never tires, is up for late-night creativity banter, and still has the energy to go on the next day.
What part of the finished work is mine?
Perhaps that’s the elephant in the room.
When I think about what I actually did over those late-night hours—sharing Claude my 1,470 blog posts to teach the voice, giving the story its shape, rejecting suggestions that didn’t sound right, sitting with the reader panel’s verdict and going back in, choosing between the pew, the chair under a spotlight, and the door—if that’s not mine, then what is?
But there’s a part I can’t quite sweep away under the rug. The sentences in the story I co-wrote with AI came from somewhere I can’t fully account for, sentences I did not write. The model learned from writers whose names I’ll never know, and I want to be honest about that. Their work sits next to my own work, and I don’t have a tidy way to separate them. But don’t we all learn how to write from somebody?
So perhaps the truer answer is this: the vision is mine, the taste is mine, the choices are mine. The judgment about what to keep and what to cut was also always mine. And the sentences are something else. Something we made together, with all the unease that we—a human and an AI—still carry. The way an editor’s notes shape a manuscript, or a friend’s reading shifts a draft. The final thing isn’t yours alone, but it’s still yours.
Authorship has never lived only in one’s hands, has it? A composer doesn’t play every instrument but can call the music hers. A director doesn’t operate the camera, but she can still call her film hers. What’s mine is the shape of the story, and that, I can claim.
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