AI-Assisted Writing — ChatGPT is My Copilot
I grew up in the 80s watching Star Trek the Next Generation and all those other movies and TV shows that promised us a bright future in which people could just talk to their computers. I mean, really talk and not interact with them using a set of predefined commands. Ever since then and up until recently, it all seemed like a distant, unattainable future. Decades passed, and I resigned myself to the notion that that sort of technology would not materialize in my lifetime. Heck, I also gave up on jetpacks and colonies on Mars. But then November of 2022 came along, and bam! Large Language Models (LLMs) hit us head-on. ChatGPT 3.5 became available to the general public. Curious as I am, I tried pretty much straight away. Immediately, I was gobsmacked. Now, this was the future I was promised so long ago. I could finally talk to this thing, not issue sets of commands but formulate instructions in a free-flowing natural language. LLMs truly created a new Human-Computer Interaction paradigm.
Talking to this thing was fun, but I also wanted to see if I could somehow use it for something more productive. I spent a lot of time during 2023 experimenting with it, and found several interesting and useful applications for this thing. However, one of the most fascinating applications that I pretty quickly stumbled upon is as a writing assistant. I don’t mean as a glorified spellchecker. Far from it, ChatGPT (and other LLMs) can be your full-fledged copilots in this endeavor. Literal writing buddies that can help you craft stories and furthermore experiment with storytelling in a fraction of the time that it would take you to do the same on your own.
What follows is an example of one such process. I hope you will find it useful, at least as a seed for your own experimentation.
All the examples here are generated using ChatGPT 4.0, but the general ideas apply to ChatGPT 3.5 as well. I deliberately chose a pretty vanilla stock situation as I wanted to demonstrate the general process involved and didn’t want to base my examples on a scene that would be anchored in a particular genre or require implicit knowledge of characters and background stories. However, I have tested this thing by writing stories that would fit a wide variety of genres.
Before we delve in, there are a couple of things to understand about the way LLMs work. I am not talking about technical details; for that, you can look elsewhere [link]. Rather, I have a more conceptual level in mind. LLMs are artificial neural networks. They are trained on a gigantic body of data composed of texts gathered from the Web. What they do is operate on probabilities. They essentially learn which sets of characters (words) most frequently appear next to each other. This may sound simplistic, but quantity does matter. Apply this process to a dataset of, say, 17 trillion words, and magic starts to happen. Black magic!
Why is this important? Well, because it directly implies that LLMs will be best at creating, most probable, i.e., most cliche texts that you can expect on the given topic. By itself, this is not very creative. The creativity, at least at this point in time, rests firmly with the human in command, meaning YOU!
We can test this right away. If you ask ChatGPT to create a whole scene based on a short and generic prompt, you will get an arguably very generic and bland result.
Me:
You are helping me write a story. Create a scene that takes place in a kitchen. A young couple is arguing about something. Pick out the names for the main characters and mix in lines spoken by them with the narrative.
ChatGPT:
In the warmly lit kitchen of a cozy apartment, Julia and Ethan stand amidst the scent of freshly brewed coffee and a half-prepared breakfast. The morning light filters through the window, casting a serene glow over the scene, which contrasts sharply with the rising tension between them.
Ethan, his brow furrowed, leans against the marble countertop, his voice a mix of frustration and concern. “Julia, I just don’t understand why you won’t consider the job offer in Boston. It’s a fantastic opportunity for you!”
Julia, arms crossed, stands by the stove, her expression a blend of determination and exasperation. “Ethan, how can you not see? It’s not just about the job. My entire family is here, our friends are here. I can’t just uproot my life based on a job offer, no matter how good it is.”
The aroma of coffee grows stronger, mingling with the undercurrents of their argument. The half-sliced bread on the cutting board and the sizzling pan on the stove seem to be the only things moving in a kitchen where time feels momentarily suspended.
Ethan runs a hand through his hair, trying to find the right words. “I get that, I really do. But think about what this could mean for us, for our future. It’s not just about now, Julia.”
Julia turns off the stove, her gaze softening slightly. “Ethan, I know you’re thinking about our future, but we have to be happy with our present too. There’s more to life than just career moves.”
As they stand there, the kitchen becomes a tableau of their life together — full of love, challenges, and the delicate balance of compromise.
Taking a look at this output, we can notice a couple of things. First, the story is indeed very bland. It lacks any emotional tension. Second, ChatGPT chose story elements that are probably one of the most common tropes in the dataset it was trained on. The reason for the argument is, of course, one of the characters accepting a job in the other city. Talk about class bias. The names are also chosen using the same process, Julia and Ethan and the job is for some reason in Boston!
If I make ChatGPT regenerate the story using the same prompt, I will get a new fragment of pretty much equal quality.
ChatGPT:
In the warmly lit kitchen of a cozy suburban home, Jessica and Michael find themselves in the midst of a heated argument. Sunlight filters through the window, casting a glow on the modern appliances and the half-prepared dinner on the counter.
Jessica, her arms crossed, stands near the marble island, a frown etching her features. “Michael, how could you forget our anniversary? It’s not just any date — it’s the day we started our life together,” she says, her voice a mix of disappointment and disbelief.
Michael, leaning against the fridge, runs a hand through his hair, a gesture of frustration and regret. “I know, Jess, and I’m sorry. Work has been so hectic, and I just… it slipped my mind,” he replies, his tone apologetic yet tense.
The air is thick with unsaid words, the clink of a spoon against a bowl punctuating their silence. A pot simmers on the stove, its contents forgotten as they navigate the complexities of their feelings and the realities of their busy lives.
In this moment, their kitchen, once a place of shared joy and culinary adventures, becomes a silent witness to the challenges of balancing love and life’s unexpected demands.
The names of the characters are different. The reason for their argument is different but equally predictable. AI is not going to do the truly creative bit of process for you. As a writer, you will still need to do the heavy lifting yourself.
Let’s add a bit of color to this scene by providing a bit more specific prompt.
Me:
You are helping me write a scene. The scene takes place in the kitchen of an ordinary apartment. It is morning. The participants are a young female in her mid twenties and her male partner of about the same age. At the beginning of the scene the man is trying to make a coffee. His back is turned towards a woman who is sitting at the table. There is a sense of tension between two. Woman breaks the silence with the words “We need to talk…” Describe the scene and the setting in as much detail as possible. Include the description of sights, colors, smells and sounds. Include lines spoken by both. Create a gradual buildup that culminates in an intense verbal argument. Make it sound like a chapter from a novel.
ChatGPT:
The morning light spilled into the small kitchen of the apartment, casting a soft, warm glow on the cream-colored walls. A small wooden table, its surface slightly worn from years of use, occupied the center of the room, surrounded by two mismatched chairs. The air was filled with the rich, earthy scent of freshly ground coffee, a stark contrast to the lingering tension that seemed to hang like a heavy curtain between the room’s two occupants.
In the corner, a young man, about twenty-five, stood with his back to the room, hunched slightly over the kitchen counter. His hair was unkempt, falling in lazy waves just above his collar, and he wore a plain gray t-shirt that had seen better days. The coffee maker gurgled and hissed as he scooped the grounds into the filter, a mundane sound that was somehow amplified in the silence.
Sitting at the table was a young woman, her mid-twenties evident in the soft lines of her face. She wore a light blue pajama set, the color reminiscent of the early morning sky, and her dark hair cascaded over her shoulders in a disheveled braid. Her hands were wrapped around a white mug, though it had long since been emptied of its contents. Her eyes, a deep brown, were fixed on the man’s back, her gaze intense and troubled.
The clock on the wall ticked away the seconds, each one seeming to stretch longer than the last. Finally, the woman’s voice broke through the silence, soft yet firm, carrying an undercurrent of unresolved emotion. “We need to talk…”
The man paused, his movements stilling. He didn’t turn around, but his shoulders tensed visibly. “About what?” he asked, his voice strained, as he tried to maintain the normalcy of their morning routine.
“About us,” she replied, her voice gaining strength. “About where this is going… or if it’s going anywhere at all.”
He let out a sigh, a sound of resignation, and turned slowly to face her. His eyes, a light shade of hazel, met hers with a mixture of frustration and weariness. “I thought we were doing fine,” he said, a defensive edge to his words.
“Fine?” she echoed, her voice rising slightly. “We’ve been walking on eggshells around each other for weeks. You come home late, we barely talk, and when we do, it’s just… superficial.”
The sound of the coffee maker sputtering to a stop seemed incongruous in the growing intensity of their conversation. He took a step towards the table, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. “I’ve been busy with work. You know that. I’m trying to do what’s best for us.”
“For us or for you?” she countered, standing up, the chair scraping against the floor. “I feel like I’m living with a stranger. We used to talk, really talk. Now, it’s like you’re not even here, even when you are.”
The accusation hung in the air, and for a moment, they both seemed to grapple with the weight of her words. He looked away, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “I don’t know what you want from me,” he said, his voice a mixture of anger and confusion.
“I want us back,” she replied, her voice breaking with emotion. “I want to feel like we’re in this together, not just two people sharing the same space.”
The argument escalated, their voices intertwining in a symphony of grievances and unmet expectations. The forgotten coffee on the counter, the untouched breakfast on the table, all faded into the background as their words filled the room, each sentence more charged than the last.
As the intensity of their exchange reached its peak, the sounds of the city outside seemed to fade away, leaving only the raw, unfiltered truth of their feelings exposed in the quiet aftermath. The lingering aroma of coffee, once comforting, now seemed like a distant memory, a reminder of simpler times in the complex tapestry of their relationship.
The output this time is much longer and arguably a lot more engaging. It is still not going to win us a Nobel prize in literature, but it is a start of the process. You will notice something. This time around there are no names for the characters. This is because I have specified them as a man and a woman in my prompt. ChatGPT can help us find inspiration for the names. Again, I want to go with fairly ordinary names and this is what I will ask it to provide.
Me:
Come up with the five suggestions for a female name typical for her age group. Come up with five male names typical for his age group.
ChatGPT:
For a young woman in her mid-twenties, here are five names that would be typical for her age group: Emma, Olivia, Sophia, Emily, Isabella
For a young man in his mid-twenties, here are five names that would be typical for his age group: Liam, Noah, Ethan, Jacob, Michael
These names have been popular in recent years and would suit characters in their mid-twenties quite well.
You can use ChatGPT to provide inspiration or references for pretty much anything right there in the same UI, mid-writing process! This is nifty. I’ll just pick two names from the lists it provided. Emma, cos it’s first on the list, and Noah, just because Liam reminds me too much of Liam Gallagher, and I can stomach Noah and the Whale on this winter morning so much better. For the hell of it, I will just add a drop of physical characteristics to my characters.
Me:
Let’s go with names Emma and Noah. Create a new version of the previous text using their names. Insert the physical description of two of them. Emma has pale white skin with freckles and auburn hair tied in a loose braid. Noah is tall and dark haired with a stubble.
ChatGPT:
The morning light filtered softly into the kitchen of the apartment, casting a gentle, warm glow against the cream-colored walls. In the center, a modest wooden table showed signs of wear, evidence of many shared meals, standing steadfastly with its two mismatched chairs. The air was tinged with the rich, earthy aroma of freshly ground coffee, contrasting sharply with the thick tension that seemed to envelop the room’s two occupants.
In one corner, Noah, a young man in his mid-twenties, stood with his back to the room. He was tall, his dark hair a little disheveled, giving him a rugged look that was accentuated by the stubble shadowing his jaw. Dressed in a plain, slightly faded gray t-shirt, he hunched slightly over the kitchen counter, focusing intently on the coffee maker that gurgled and hissed as he scooped in the grounds. This mundane task, usually performed in comfortable silence, now felt heavy in the silence that filled the room.
Sitting at the table was Emma, also in her mid-twenties. Her pale white skin, dotted with a sprinkle of freckles, seemed almost luminescent in the morning light. Auburn hair, rich and full, was tied back in a loose braid that draped over her shoulder. She wore a light blue pajama set, which made her look even more ethereal in the early morning light. Her hands, delicate and expressive, were wrapped around an empty white mug. Her deep brown eyes, intense and troubled, were fixed on Noah’s back.
The ticking of the clock on the wall seemed louder than usual, marking the passage of time in a space where every second stretched with unspoken words. Finally, Emma’s voice broke the silence, soft yet resolute, carrying an undercurrent of deep-seated emotions. “We need to talk…”
Noah’s movements paused, and he stiffened, the tension in his shoulders visible even from behind. Without turning, he replied, his voice strained, “About what?”
“About us,” Emma answered, her voice gaining strength as she continued. “About where this is going… or if it’s going anywhere at all.”
He let out a sigh, a sound more of resignation than relief, and slowly turned to face her. His hazel eyes met hers, a mix of frustration and weariness in his gaze. “I thought we were doing fine,” he said, his words edged with defensiveness.
“Fine?” Emma echoed, standing up, her chair scraping against the floor with a sharp sound. “We’ve been walking on eggshells around each other for weeks. You come home late, we barely talk, and when we do, it’s just… superficial.”
The coffee maker, now silent, seemed almost irrelevant as the conversation intensified. Noah took a step towards the table, his tall frame casting a shadow in the morning light. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides as he spoke. “I’ve been busy with work. You know that. I’m trying to do what’s best for us.”
“For us or for you?” Emma challenged, her voice rising slightly, her freckles standing out against her flushed skin. “I feel like I’m living with a stranger. We used to talk, really talk. Now, it’s like you’re not even here, even when you are.”
The accusation hung in the air, weighty and charged. Noah looked away, frustration etched on his face. “I don’t know what you want from me,” he admitted, his voice a mix of anger and confusion.
“I want us back,” Emma said, her voice breaking, revealing the emotion she had been holding back. “I want to feel like we’re in this together, not just two people sharing the same space.”
Their argument escalated, voices rising and intertwining in a passionate exchange of grievances and unmet expectations. The forgotten coffee on the counter, the untouched breakfast on the table, all receded into the background as their words filled the room. Each sentence carried more weight than the last, until the room was saturated with the raw, unfiltered truth of their feelings.
As the intensity of their exchange reached its peak, the sounds of the city outside seemed to fade away, leaving only the stark reality of their strained relationship exposed in the quiet aftermath. The lingering scent of coffee, once a comforting morning ritual, now hung in the air like a remnant of simpler times in the complex tapestry of Emma and Noah’s relationship.
Ok, we got a bit of color, but third person narrative is not really engaging in this case. This is an interpersonal drama. Let’s make it more engaging by casting it in first person from the point of view of one of the characters.
Me:
Tell the whole scene from Noah’s perspective in the first person. He knows that the storm is coming and is bracing for it.
ChatGPT:
As the first light of morning seeped into our small kitchen, casting a soft glow on the cream walls, I stood there, my back to Emma, trying to focus on the simple act of making coffee. The familiar, comforting scent filled the air, but it did little to ease the growing knot of tension in my stomach. I knew a storm was brewing, a confrontation long overdue, and I braced myself for it.
I could feel Emma’s eyes on me, her gaze like a tangible force. Even without looking, I pictured her there at our worn wooden table, her pale skin dotted with freckles, her auburn hair falling in a loose braid. She had this way of holding her mug, both hands wrapped around it, as if drawing strength from its warmth. But today, the mug was just a prop in a scene where neither of us knew our lines.
The silence in the room was deafening, broken only by the ticking of the clock and the gurgling of the coffee maker. I scooped the grounds into the filter with robotic precision, my every movement feeling overly deliberate, overly conscious. I was stalling, and I knew it.
Then, her voice cut through the silence, soft yet firm, “We need to talk…”
I tensed, my hand pausing mid-scoop. I knew this was coming, yet I wasn’t ready. “About what?” I asked, my voice steady despite the turmoil inside.
“About us,” she said. “About where this is going… or if it’s going anywhere at all.”
I turned slowly, facing her. There she was, in her light blue pajamas, looking almost ethereal in the morning light, yet so full of real, raw emotion. “I thought we were doing fine,” I said, the words sounding feeble even to my own ears.
“Fine?” she echoed, standing up. The sound of her chair scraping against the floor seemed to echo around the room. “We’ve been walking on eggshells around each other for weeks. You come home late, we barely talk, and when we do, it’s just… superficial.”
I stepped towards the table, feeling suddenly like an intruder in my own kitchen. “I’ve been busy with work. You know that. I’m trying to do what’s best for us.”
“For us or for you?” Her voice was rising now, a crescendo of frustration and hurt. “I feel like I’m living with a stranger. We used to talk, really talk. Now, it’s like you’re not even here, even when you are.”
Her words hit me like a physical blow. I looked away, running a hand through my hair, feeling the rough stubble on my jaw. “I don’t know what you want from me,” I admitted, the confusion and anger in my voice mirroring the turmoil inside.
“I want us back,” she said, her voice breaking. “I want to feel like we’re in this together, not just two people sharing the same space.”
The argument spiraled from there, our voices filling the room with years of unspoken words, grievances, and disappointments. The forgotten coffee, the empty mug on the table, they all seemed insignificant compared to the raw emotion that was finally being laid bare.
As the argument reached its climax, the world outside our kitchen seemed to fall away, leaving only the stark reality of what our relationship had become. The once comforting aroma of coffee now hung heavy in the air, a bittersweet reminder of simpler times, now lost in the complexities of what Emma and I had become.
Now, the true power of AI-assisted writing comes to light. You are no longer a writer. You become something closer to an editor! Or perhaps a sculptor. You shape the story, and your AI minion provides you with the output!
I am still not happy with the level of emotional engagement. The reason for their disagreement is still not clear. I will ask AI for a bit of inspiration.
Me:
They need a more concrete reason for the argument. The tension between them is brewing for various reason but there should be one concrete thing that triggers this conversation. Come up with five suggestions.
ChatGPT:
Certainly, having a specific trigger for the argument can add depth and realism to the scene. Here are five suggestions for a concrete reason that could trigger the conversation between Emma and Noah:
A Forgotten Anniversary or Special Date: Noah forgets an important date, such as their anniversary or Emma’s birthday. This oversight brings to the surface underlying feelings of neglect and lack of appreciation, leading to a deeper conversation about their relationship.
A Revealing Text Message: Emma accidentally sees a text message on Noah’s phone from an unknown number, which seems intimate or suspicious. This discovery prompts her to confront him, leading to a discussion about trust, communication, and possibly past issues of fidelity.
A Job Offer or Career Decision: Noah receives a job offer in a different city or has to make a significant career decision without consulting Emma. This situation triggers a conversation about their future together, priorities, and whether they are truly considering each other’s needs and aspirations.
An Unplanned Financial Expenditure: Noah makes a large, unplanned purchase or financial decision (like buying a car or investing a significant amount of money) without discussing it with Emma first. This act leads to a heated discussion about financial responsibility, shared decision-making, and respect within the relationship.
A Clash Over Future Plans: Emma brings up a topic about their future, such as moving in together, marriage, or starting a family, and discovers that Noah has very different views or is not ready to commit to these steps. This revelation sparks a discussion about their expectations, the seriousness of their relationship, and where they both see it heading.
Each of these triggers is relatable and can effectively set the stage for a realistic and emotionally charged conversation, addressing the underlying issues in Emma and Noah’s relationship.
These sound pretty boring and mundane. I would like something funnier. I hope ChatGPT can help me with that.
Me:
Come up with five more silly humorous reasons.
ChatGPT:
Certainly! Here are five more light-hearted and humorous reasons that could trigger the conversation between Emma and Noah:
Mystery of the Missing Leftovers: Emma discovers that her carefully prepared and much-anticipated leftovers from a favorite meal have mysteriously disappeared from the fridge. She confronts Noah, who sheepishly admits to eating them late at night, leading to a comical exchange about food boundaries and midnight snacking habits.
The Great Toothpaste Debate: A seemingly trivial argument erupts over the proper way to squeeze a toothpaste tube — from the bottom or just anywhere. This silly squabble spirals into a playful yet revealing discussion about their living habits and quirks, shedding light on how they handle small annoyances in everyday life.
Mismatched Netflix Accounts: Noah accidentally messes up Emma’s carefully curated Netflix recommendations by watching a series of bizarre or out-of-character shows. Emma’s mock outrage leads to a lighthearted argument about respecting each other’s digital spaces and the humorous side of their viewing habits.
The Case of the Misplaced Keys: Emma can’t find her keys, which she is certain she left on the kitchen counter. After a humorous hunt involving both of them turning the apartment upside down, they find the keys in Noah’s jacket pocket, leading to a playful banter about forgetfulness and everyday mishaps.
The Battle of the Blanket: Emma and Noah engage in a funny, exaggerated tug-of-war over the bed blanket at night, each accusing the other of being a ‘blanket hog.’ This mock battle turns into a whimsical conversation about their sleeping habits and the endearing, yet sometimes frustrating, aspects of sharing a bed.
These light-hearted triggers can bring a sense of humor and relatability to the scene, showcasing the couple’s ability to find laughter and connection even in their small disagreements.
As you can see, there are limitations to what you can expect of ChatGPT. It can maybe provide some inspiration, but being actually creative is not something it is capable of doing. I would argue that it wasn’t even intended for such a purpose. I’ll provide my own reason for the argument between characters. (Hopefully, I am doing better than AI in the creative department.)
Me:
Ok let’s try another reason. Emma is vegan. Noah is trying to follow her lifestyle, but she found a wrapper of a Big Mac under the car seat. She tells him that they need to talk. At first he knows the trouble is coming but doesn’t know about what. She drops the bomb about the wrapper. He tries to brush it off but she insists. He loses patience and the argue.
ChatGPT:
The morning sun streamed through the window, bathing our tiny kitchen in a soft, warm light. I stood with my back to Emma, my focus on the coffee maker. The rich aroma of brewing coffee filled the air, but it did little to ease the growing knot of tension inside me. Something felt off this morning, the atmosphere charged with an unspoken expectation of impending conflict.
I could feel Emma’s gaze on me, her presence at the table both comforting and unnerving. I didn’t need to turn around to know her look — the one that signaled deep contemplation, maybe even concern. Her silence was unnerving, and the rhythmic ticking of the clock seemed to emphasize the growing distance between us.
Then, breaking the silence, she said, “We need to talk…”
I turned, a sense of foreboding settling over me, though I had no idea what this was about. “About what?” I asked, trying to keep my voice even.
Emma’s brown eyes were fixed on me, her expression serious. “I found a Big Mac wrapper under the car seat,” she said, her voice tinged with disappointment.
A Big Mac wrapper. Of all the things I expected, this wasn’t it. I felt a mix of relief and embarrassment. “Oh, that,” I said, attempting to brush it off. “It’s not a big deal.”
“Not a big deal?” she repeated, her tone rising slightly. “You know I’m vegan, Noah. We agreed to support each other in this lifestyle. Finding that… It feels like you’re not taking this seriously.”
I sighed, running a hand through my hair. I could see now how much this meant to her. “I am taking it seriously, Emma. It was just a one-time thing. I was hungry, and it was convenient.”
“But it’s more than just a meal, Noah,” she insisted. “It’s about our choices, our values. When you do something like this, it makes me question how much you respect those values.”
I could feel my patience wearing thin. “So I had a burger, Emma. I’m trying here, but I’m not perfect. Can’t you just let it slide?”
Her gaze didn’t waver, and I knew this was about more than just a fast-food wrapper. It was about trust, commitment, and the small choices that reflect our bigger commitments to each other.
Our voices grew louder, the conversation escalating into an argument that was about much more than dietary choices. It was about understanding, respect, and how we navigate the differences between us. The forgotten coffee, the lingering scent of it in the air, became a backdrop to a more significant revelation of where we stood in our relationship.
As the argument reached its peak, the world outside our kitchen seemed to vanish, leaving only the stark reality of the distance that had grown between us. The once comforting routine of our morning coffee now seemed like a distant memory, overshadowed by the realization of the challenges we faced in aligning our lifestyles and values.
Remember how we switched from the third to the first-person perspective a few steps ago? ChatGPT is capable of doing much more. We can switch characters as well. This allows us to experiment with our narrative in a very fluid way. Let’s see how this whole scene sounds from Emma’s point of view.
Me:
Tell this whole scene from Emma’s perspective. Keep the same emotional buildup and charge.
ChatGPT:
The morning sun cast a gentle light through the window, bathing our tiny kitchen in a soft, serene glow. Yet, the beauty outside couldn’t mask the turmoil brewing inside me. Sitting at the table, I watched Noah’s back as he busied himself with the coffee maker. The rich aroma of coffee filled the air, a stark contrast to the heavy, tense silence between us.
I had been carrying this weight for a while now, a growing sense of disconnect, and today, it felt like I couldn’t hold it in any longer. “We need to talk…” I found myself saying, my voice a mix of resolve and apprehension.
Noah turned, an expression of foreboding crossing his face. “About what?” he asked, his voice steady, betraying nothing of the unease I felt.
Taking a deep breath, I dove into the heart of my unrest. “I found a Big Mac wrapper under the car seat, Noah,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady, but it wavered with emotion.
He tried to brush it off, “Oh, that,” but I could hear the indifference in his voice, and it stung.
I pressed on, my frustration and hurt rising to the surface. “You know how important being vegan is to me. We agreed to do this together. And then you go and… it’s like you don’t care at all about the promises we make.”
Noah’s response was sharp, tinged with a jaded tone that I wasn’t used to. “Emma, it was just a burger,” he said, almost dismissively. “Can’t we just let this go?”
Tears began to well up in my eyes, the hurt deepening. “It’s not about the burger, Noah! It’s about trust. It’s about commitment. How can I trust you on the big things when you can’t even be honest about something as small as this?”
His patience seemed to snap, and his tone became more biting. “What do you want from me, Emma? Perfection? I’m trying here, but it feels like it’s never enough for you.”
My voice cracked as I spoke, the tears now streaming down my face. “I just want to feel like we’re in this together, that our choices, our values, they mean something to you too.”
Our voices rose, the argument intensifying, each word laden with the unspoken frustrations and disappointments that had been building up over time. The forgotten coffee on the counter, once a symbol of our shared routine, now seemed insignificant against the backdrop of our raw, painful exchange.
As the argument reached its peak, the world outside the kitchen window seemed distant, irrelevant. The once comforting aroma of coffee now hung in the air like a bitter testament to the distance that had grown between us. Each word, each tear, underscored the chasm that had formed in our relationship, a gap that seemed to widen even as we desperately tried to bridge it with our words and emotions.
This is fun. We can bounce our story around various other characters and points of view.
Me:
Tell everything from the perspective of their pet chihuahua who is huddling near the fridge.
ChatGPT:
From my little spot near the fridge, tucked away in the safety of my cozy nook, I watched the two giants of my world in their morning dance. The big one, Noah, was by the noisy machine that puffs out delightful smells every morning. The other, Emma, sat at the big eating place, looking smaller than usual. The light from the big window made everything look soft and warm, but the air felt different today — heavy and prickly.
I could sense something was about to happen, the way the air changes before the loud sky-booms during storms. Emma’s voice, usually like gentle pats, had a sharpness to it. “We need to talk…” she said. I tilted my head, curious. Noah turned around, and I could see the tension in his body, like when he sees the mailman.
Then Emma said something about a wrapper. I remembered sniffing it out under the big rolling thing they take me in sometimes. I didn’t know why it was important, but it made Emma’s voice wobble like she was scared.
Noah tried to act like it was no big deal, but even I could tell it was. Emma’s voice got louder, her words tumbling out faster. Noah’s voice got louder too, like when he tells me ‘No!’ for chewing on things.
Emma’s face started leaking. I know about leaking faces. That’s what happens when Emma holds me tight after the loud sky-booms. I wanted to go to her, to nuzzle her and make her feel better, but the air was too spiky, the voices too loud.
Their voices got even louder, bouncing off the walls, filling up the room. I pressed myself closer to the fridge, wishing I could just crawl inside my little bed and hide from all the loudness.
I could feel the big rolling waves of something sad and angry going back and forth between them. The room, usually filled with nice smells and gentle sounds, felt like a scary place now. The smell of the morning drink was there, but it was mixed with something else, something that didn’t feel right.
As they kept talking and talking, their voices growing bigger and scarier, I just curled up tighter, wishing for the loudness to stop. I didn’t understand all their human words, but I understood feelings. And right now, the feelings were too big, too loud, and too scary for a little one like me.
I wished I could do something, anything, to make them stop and be the happy giants they usually are. But all I could do was stay hidden, waiting for the storm to pass, hoping that soon the kitchen would go back to being the warm, happy place I knew and loved.
ChatGPT can do even inanimate objects!
Me:
Tell everything from the perspective of the espresso machine. Make it sound a bit posh and pretentious. It is an expensive Italian coffee machine aware of its high status in this household.
ChatGPT:
Ah, the morning light through the kitchen window — a spotlight for my splendid Italian craftsmanship. I, the exquisite espresso machine, take my place with pride on the counter. My sleek, polished chrome gleams in the sun, a testament to my high status in this modest abode. I am, after all, an indulgence, a luxury, a slice of la dolce vita in this otherwise ordinary kitchen.
This morning, however, the atmosphere is thick with something far less pleasant than the rich aromas I am adept at producing. I sense the tension between Emma and Noah, my human companions. Emma, with her delicate features and thoughtful gaze, sits at the table, an air of expectancy surrounding her. Noah, usually so assured, appears somewhat unsettled as he approaches me, his reliable ally in the art of coffee making.
The ritual begins. Noah’s hands, less steady than usual, scoop the fine grounds — a blend befitting my sophisticated mechanisms. But ah, there’s a disruption in the routine. Emma’s voice, usually sweet like the sugar she spoons into her espresso, cuts through the morning calm. “We need to talk…” she says, a phrase heavy with meaning, even to an appliance of my refined sensibilities.
Noah turns, a look of foreboding upon his face. He knows, as do I, that this is no ordinary morning conversation. The issue at hand? A Big Mac wrapper. Oh, the indignity! In a household graced by my presence, to resort to such pedestrian fare!
Noah attempts to downplay the matter, but Emma is not to be placated. Her voice, laced with emotion, rises in both volume and pitch. I can feel the heat of the moment, rivaling even the steam I proudly emit. Noah’s responses grow sharper, echoing off my polished steel.
Oh, how I long to interject, to remind them of the finer things in life, like a perfectly brewed cup of espresso from their esteemed Italian machine. But alas, I am but a silent observer, destined to watch this human drama unfold.
As their voices crescendo, I stand resolute, a beacon of quality and luxury amidst the chaos. The argument reaches its peak, and for a moment, I fear for the harmony of this household, a harmony I so elegantly embody.
Emma’s tears, Noah’s frustration — such raw, human emotions. And yet, through it all, I remain a symbol of sophistication, an unyielding reminder of the beauty and craftsmanship that life can offer, even in times of discord.
The confrontation ends, leaving a residue of tension in the air, much like the fine coffee grounds that linger in my basket. But I remain confident that, in time, the allure of a perfectly crafted espresso will reunite them in appreciation of the finer things — of which I am, undoubtedly, one.
Let’s see how this story looks from the perspective of the evidence of the misdeed.
Me:
Tell everything from the perspective of the said big mac wrapper that Emma has placed on the table as an evidence.
ChatGPT:
Ah, here I am, a crumpled Big Mac wrapper, unceremoniously placed on the table — a piece of evidence, a silent accuser in this morning’s domestic drama. I’ve had quite the journey from a McDonald’s to this cozy, little kitchen, where the tension now hangs thick in the air, almost palpable.
From my vantage point on the table, I observe Emma. Her eyes, usually bright and warm, are clouded with something akin to betrayal. She glances at me periodically, as if to remind herself of the reason for her discontent. Across from her stands Noah, by that fancy espresso machine — oh, how it gleams with an air of superiority that I, a mere fast-food wrapper, could never aspire to.
The moment Emma utters those words, “We need to talk…” I sense my role in this unfolding drama magnify. Noah turns, and I can almost feel the waves of apprehension emanating from him. He knows I am here, a testament to a clandestine culinary indiscretion, a symbol of broken promises in their vegan household.
When Emma reveals my presence as the cause of her upset, Noah tries to dismiss me, to diminish my significance. “Oh, that,” he says, as if I were just a piece of trash, not the catalyst of this morning’s upheaval. But Emma, she won’t have it. Her voice escalates, filled with emotion, each word underlined by a glance in my direction.
Noah’s attempts to downplay the situation only add fuel to the fire. The air crackles with their rising voices, their words intertwining in a dance of frustration and misunderstanding. I sit there, a crinkled, greasy testament to the secret Noah thought he had hidden away.
As their argument reaches its crescendo, I feel almost like a trophy on display, a symbol of the small deceits that can erode trust. Emma’s tears, Noah’s jaded defensiveness — I am the silent witness to it all.
The once comforting aroma of coffee from the espresso machine is now overshadowed by the emotional storm in the kitchen. And here I am, a Big Mac wrapper, an unlikely centerpiece in their kitchen, a reminder of the fragility of promises and the complexity of human relationships. In this moment, I am more than just trash; I am a symbol of the challenges they face, a crinkled embodiment of a relationship’s unspoken truths.
In the same way, we can also change the tone of any of the characters.
Me:
Create a new version of this dialogue, again from Emma’s perspective but make her sound jaded and cynical. Insert a bit of irony in her voice.
ChatGPT:
As the morning sun lazily crept through the kitchen window, I sat at our old table, idly tracing the wood grain with my finger. Across the room, Noah fumbled with his beloved espresso machine, that shining beacon of sophistication in our otherwise mundane kitchen. I couldn’t help but marvel at the irony — here we were, a picture of domestic bliss, except for the storm brewing just beneath the surface.
“We need to talk…” I said, my voice tinged with a weariness that belied the calmness of the morning. I watched as Noah turned, his face a mask of feigned ignorance. Oh, how predictable.
“About what?” he asked, trying to sound innocent. If only his acting was as good as his coffee-making skills.
I glanced at the crumpled Big Mac wrapper lying accusingly on the table. “I found this under the car seat,” I said, struggling to keep the cynicism out of my voice. “Imagine my surprise.”
Noah tried to downplay it, of course. “Oh, that,” he said with a casual shrug, as if it were nothing more than a misplaced coffee bean. “It’s not a big deal.”
“Not a big deal?” I echoed, my voice dripping with irony. “Of course not. Just a token of your undying commitment to our lifestyle choices.”
He sighed, the picture of a misunderstood martyr. “Emma, it was just a burger. Can’t we just let this go?”
I couldn’t help but laugh, albeit bitterly. “Just a burger,” I repeated. “Our entire relationship summed up in fast food. How fitting.”
The argument spiraled from there, our voices rising in a symphony of grievances, both old and new. Noah, with his usual defensiveness, and me, with my newfound cynicism. The once comforting aroma of espresso now seemed like a mocking reminder of how far we’d strayed from those early days of idealistic promises.
As tears threatened to spill from my eyes — not out of sadness, but frustration — I realized how jaded I’d become. The Emma who once believed in perfect harmony and shared values seemed like a stranger now.
The argument wound down, leaving a bitter aftertaste that not even the finest coffee could mask. The Big Mac wrapper still lay there, a silent testament to the gap between what we once dreamed of and the reality we now lived in. How amusing, in a tragically ironic way, that such a mundane object could unravel the facade of our seemingly perfect little world.
ChatGPT allows us to play around with the tone and the emotion of the whole story. We can totally turn things around.
Me:
Create a new version of this dialogue. It should start with a mock conflict but as Emma sees Noah squirming she should switch to a more playful cheeky mood. They joke about Noah being unfaithful. He is glad she is not actually mad.
ChatGPT:
The morning sun poured into our little kitchen, casting playful shadows on the walls. I sat at the table, a mischievous plan forming in my mind as I watched Noah fumbling with his beloved espresso machine. Today felt like a good day for a little mock drama.
“We need to talk…” I announced, injecting a serious tone into my voice. I watched as Noah turned, a look of concern etched on his face. “About what?” he asked, his voice tinged with apprehension.
I pointed to the crumpled Big Mac wrapper on the table with a dramatic flourish. “I found this under the car seat,” I said, feigning disappointment. The look on his face was priceless — a mixture of guilt and confusion.
“Oh, that,” he stammered, clearly squirming under the weight of my accusatory gaze. “It’s not what it looks like…”
I couldn’t hold back a smirk. “Really? It looks like a blatant act of betrayal to me,” I said, trying hard to keep a straight face. “What would our vegan friends say?”
Noah’s face was a picture of relief and realization as he caught on to my teasing tone. “They’d probably disown me,” he played along, a sheepish grin spreading across his face. “You caught me, I’ve been unfaithful… with a Big Mac.”
I laughed, the sound bright and carefree. “I knew it! How could you cheat on me with fast food?” I joked, the playful glint in my eyes softening the mock seriousness of the situation.
He walked over to the table, his relief palpable. “I promise it was a one-time thing. You know you’re my one and only… vegan love.”
We both burst into laughter, the tension dissolving into a warm, light-hearted atmosphere. The aroma of coffee filled the room, now a backdrop to our playful banter.
“I’m glad you’re not actually mad,” Noah said, his eyes sparkling with amusement.
I reached for his hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. “I could never stay mad at you. Especially not over a burger.”
Our laughter mingled with the morning light, filling the kitchen with a sense of joy and ease. The Big Mac wrapper, once a prop in our little drama, now lay forgotten as we basked in the comfort of our playful, loving relationship.
We can also adjust the tone with more nuanced instructions to create the differences between the moods and attitudes of both characters.
Me:
Make this a bit more dramatic. He should at first think she is seriously mad. She should push it just enough to see him squirm. He is adorable when pushed against the wall this way. She finally releases the tension by switching into a more playful mood. Add a lot of banter between the two of them at the end.
ChatGPT:
The morning sun streamed through the kitchen window, casting a golden glow over everything, but I had a different sort of illumination in mind. I watched Noah, who was completely absorbed in his task at the espresso machine, blissfully unaware of the mock storm I was about to unleash.
“We need to talk…” I said, my voice laced with a heavy seriousness. Noah froze, his hand hovering over the coffee maker. He turned slowly, a look of genuine concern on his face. “About what?” he asked, his voice heavy with dread.
I pointed dramatically to the Big Mac wrapper lying conspicuously on the table. “I found this under the car seat,” I said, doing my best to sound deeply hurt. Noah’s face drained of color, his usual confidence replaced by a nervous stammer.
“Oh, that,” he began, “Emma, I can explain…” His eyes searched mine for a sign of forgiveness, his usual poise crumbling under the weight of my feigned disappointment.
I leaned back in my chair, enjoying the moment. “Explain? Oh, this should be good,” I said, trying to keep the smirk off my face as I watched him squirm. He was adorable when he was cornered, and I couldn’t resist pushing just a bit more.
He ran a hand through his hair, looking like a cornered animal. “It was just a moment of weakness. You know how much I love your vegan cooking, but sometimes a man needs a little… meat.”
I raised an eyebrow, fighting back laughter. “A moment of weakness, huh? So, what’s her name? Ms. Mac?”
Noah blinked, then realized I was teasing. A smile broke through his worried facade. “Ms. Mac and I… it was nothing serious, I swear. It was just a one-time fling.”
I burst into laughter, unable to hold it in any longer. “You should see your face right now!”
Relief washed over him, and he joined in my laughter. “You’re terrible, Emma. I thought you were actually mad!”
Grinning, I got up from my chair and walked over to him. “I can’t believe you fell for that. You and your guilty conscience!”
He wrapped his arms around me in a playful embrace. “You know, I might have to get back at you for this. Maybe hide your almond milk or something equally diabolical.”
I laughed, leaning into his hug. “You wouldn’t dare. You know you can’t live without my almond milk lattes.”
The kitchen was filled with our laughter, the playful banter continuing as we basked in the light-heartedness of the moment. The forgotten wrapper lay on the table, a silent witness to our little drama, now just a prop in our morning of playful love and affection.
As I mentioned, we can also tweak the narrative style of the whole piece.
Me:
Let’s try again the version of the scene when Emma is genuinely angry and Noah genuinely ridden with guilt and annoyed by her strictness. Tell it as if it was a neo noir detective novel. Tell it from Noah’s perspective.
ChatGPT:
The morning light crept through the blinds, cutting the kitchen into a checkerboard of light and shadow. There I was, standing by the counter, wrestling with the espresso machine — a sleek beast that seemed too sophisticated for the likes of this run-down kitchen. The hiss of steam and the bitter aroma of coffee were my only allies in a room that felt more like a crime scene than a home.
Across from me, Emma sat at the table, her posture rigid, like a statue carved from ice. In her hand, she held the evidence of my indiscretion — a crumpled Big Mac wrapper. The red and yellow colors mocked me from across the room, a glaring reminder of a simple choice that now felt like a grand betrayal.
“We need to talk…” Her words cut through the air, sharp and clear. I didn’t need to turn around to know that her eyes were fixed on me with the cold precision of a detective who’d just cracked a tough case.
“About what?” I asked, my voice a low rumble, trying to keep the annoyance from seeping through. I knew what was coming, and I braced myself for the onslaught.
She tossed the wrapper onto the table. It landed with a condemnatory slap. “About this,” she said, her voice as cold and hard as the linoleum floor beneath my feet. “I found it under the car seat. Care to explain?”
I turned to face her, feeling like a suspect under the harsh glare of an interrogation lamp. “So I had a burger,” I said, my words laced with a defiance that was as much for me as it was for her. “What’s the big deal?”
Her laugh was bitter, the sound of disillusionment. “The big deal? It’s about trust, Noah. It’s about commitment.” Each word was a bullet, and I felt them all.
Running a hand through my hair, I tried to gather my thoughts, to mount some sort of defense. “You’re blowing this out of proportion,” I retorted, my frustration mounting. “I can’t do anything right in your eyes, can I?”
The tension in the room was palpable, a thick, heavy fog that filled every corner. She stood up, her chair scraping against the floor like the screech of car brakes in a dark alley. “It’s not just about the burger, Noah. It’s about you not taking our choices seriously. It’s about respect.”
The argument spiraled, our words like punches in a noir film’s final showdown. The forgotten coffee on the counter continued its lonely hiss, a soundtrack to our domestic noir.
As our voices rose and fell, the kitchen transformed into a stage for our gritty drama. The Big Mac wrapper, that seemingly insignificant piece of evidence, lay between us, a testimony to something broken, something lost. It was a scene right out of a detective story, where the heartache was real and the casualties were measured in lost dreams and unspoken truths.
Once we hit the tone we like, we can ask ChatGPT to continue the story. It will in general, keep the tone and try to create a continuation of the story that best fits the narrative so far. You can see ChatGPT as the ultimate Choose Your Own Adventure machine.
Me:
Continue the story from Noah’s perspective. What happens next.
ChatGPT:
The kitchen, with its sharp morning light and the accusing presence of the Big Mac wrapper on the table, felt like a noir scene — a place where hidden truths come to light, and illusions shatter. There I was, Noah, cornered by my own small betrayal, facing the brunt of Emma’s disillusionment and anger.
“You don’t get it, do you, Noah?” Emma’s voice was cold, her words like icicles hanging in the air between us. “It’s not just about a stupid burger. It’s about what it represents. It’s about us.”
I stood there, the weight of her words pressing down on me. Part of me wanted to lash out, to defend my trivial lapse, but another part — a quieter, more introspective part — understood her pain. “Emma, I…” My voice trailed off. What could I say? That a moment of weakness meant nothing? To her, it meant everything.
She looked at me, her eyes searching for something, perhaps the man she thought she knew, the one she thought she’d fallen in love with. “I thought we shared the same values, Noah. I thought we were in this together. But now, I’m not so sure.”
The room felt stifling, the air thick with unspoken regrets and a sadness that seemed to seep into the very walls. I wanted to reach out to her, to bridge the gap that had opened up between us, but I felt paralyzed, trapped in my own indecision and guilt.
“I’m sorry,” I finally said, the words feeling inadequate for the chasm that had opened up in our relationship. “I didn’t realize how much it meant to you. I didn’t think…”
“That’s just it, Noah. You didn’t think,” she interrupted, her voice breaking slightly. “And sometimes I wonder what else you don’t think about. What else you don’t take seriously.”
I knew then that this was about more than a forgotten vegan lifestyle or a secret burger. It was about trust, about being in tune with each other’s feelings and beliefs. And in that moment, I felt the full extent of my failure.
The espresso machine, which had been a background hum throughout our confrontation, fell silent, as if it too recognized the gravity of the moment. The Big Mac wrapper, that innocuous piece of trash, lay there — a symbol of the small cracks that can grow into insurmountable divides in a relationship.
“I need some time, Noah,” Emma said quietly, her voice resonating with a finality that sent a chill down my spine. “Some time to think about us, about what we really want from this relationship.”
She walked out of the kitchen, leaving me standing there, alone with my thoughts and the remnants of our argument. The morning light had lost its warmth, leaving everything in a harsh, unforgiving clarity. I was left to ponder the complexities of love and commitment, and the sometimes painful realization that the smallest actions can have the deepest consequences.
If you don’t like particular details, you can always issue instructions for ChatGPT to change them.
Me:
Keep the text as it is but change the ending. Emma should lose her temper. She should start shouting and lashing at Noah and finally storm out of the kitchen slamming the door behind her.
ChatGPT:
The kitchen, awash in sharp morning light, felt like a stage set for a noir drama, with the Big Mac wrapper on the table serving as a damning piece of evidence. There I stood, Noah, cornered by my own small lapse, facing Emma’s growing disillusionment and anger.
“You just don’t get it, do you, Noah?” Emma’s voice was cold, her words sharp like shards of glass hanging in the air between us. “It’s not about the burger. It’s about what it represents. It’s about us.”
I felt her words like a physical blow, heavy with the weight of unspoken frustrations and disappointments. “Emma, I…” My voice faltered. What could I say to justify a moment of weakness that, to her, symbolized so much more?
Her gaze bored into me, searching for something, perhaps the man she once believed in. “I thought we shared values, Noah. I thought we were in this together. But now, I’m not sure anymore.”
The kitchen seemed to close in around us, the air thick with tension and a sadness that was almost palpable. I wanted to reach out, to say something, anything, to ease the pain that was evident in her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” I managed to say, the words feeling wholly inadequate for the chasm that had opened in our relationship. “I didn’t realize how important it was. I didn’t think…”
“That’s the problem, Noah. You didn’t think,” she cut in, her voice rising in volume and intensity. “And sometimes I wonder what else you don’t think about. What else you’re not taking seriously.”
This was about more than a mere dietary choice. It was about trust, about commitment, and in that moment, I felt the full weight of my failure.
The espresso machine, which had been humming in the background, seemed to fall silent as if acknowledging the gravity of the moment. The Big Mac wrapper lay there, a testament to the seemingly small yet significant fractures in a relationship.
Suddenly, Emma’s frustration boiled over. “I can’t do this anymore, Noah!” she shouted, her voice filled with a mix of anger and despair. “I can’t be with someone who doesn’t understand, who doesn’t care!”
Her outburst filled the room, echoing off the walls. It was a release of every bottled-up emotion, every unspoken grievance.
Then, without another word, she stormed out of the kitchen, her footsteps echoing through the apartment. The door slammed shut behind her with a finality that reverberated in my chest.
I was left standing alone, the silence in the kitchen a stark contrast to the intensity of the moment that had just passed. The morning light, once soft and comforting, now seemed to cast a harsh, unflinching glare on the empty room. Emma’s words and the echo of the slamming door lingered, a painful reminder of the deep-seated issues that lay beneath the surface of our seemingly mundane life.
The best part about all this is the speed by which this whole process takes place. It took me a little more than 45 minutes to generate all the examples in this text. I guess it depends on your own speed of writing, but doing all this by hand would take me significantly more time.
One nice aspect of ChatGPT is that it is perfectly capable of understanding what I mean, even if I make typing mistakes or misspell English words. This is something I actually do very often. ChatGPT is smart enough to gloss over my mistakes and move on with the request.
Full disclosure. I am not a professional writer or a narrative designer. I don’t know if any of this is actually usable in its current form, but I can totally see the (very near) future where AI-assisted is an integral part of the creative process, especially in situations when the volume of the output is important and deadlines tight. In the meantime, I am just having fun creating this stuff.
