Recreating Creative Writing: Can ChatGPT Write a Short Story? (part 2 of almost certainly 3)

July 10, 2023 Recreating Creative Writing: Can ChatGPT Write a Short Story? (part 2 of almost certainly 3)

It’s the end of Creative Writing as we know it.

Unless it’s not.

Last week I tried ChatGPT as a writing (rather than cheating) tool for the first time, inputting a single sentence and then various questions to see how it was at drafting fiction.

Short answer: not great.

Aside from a terrible idea-to-word ratio (how can it take so many words to say so little?), it avoids specifics, loves summary, and hates conflict, always sending characters into heart-warming moments of generic contentment.

But maybe that was my fault. Better inputs might produce better results. Maybe there’s a way to tune it for emotional sabotage and suffering — the default setting of short fiction.

Starting with a lone sentence might not be a best practice either. I have my students write one-page scenes for the first two weeks of class. If they pasted in one of those, would ChatGPT output a complete 10-page draft, completing the narrative arc in their style?

For my second experiment, I tried a 1700-word (not quite four pages) scene of my own, curious whether ChatGPT could run with it.

You may want to jump ahead to the results, but if you’re interested, here’s the scene:

***

She is standing behind the bar, polishing a wine glass against a white cloth. She raises her chin and blinks at me as I slide onto the furthest stool. My throat feels raw, and I have to swallow once before forcing a smile and meeting her black eyes. They remind me of my ex-partner’s.

“What would you like?” Her voice is stiff, like an instrument plucking notes from a page of sheet music, the last one dutifully rising. It’s not like I had expected her to recognize me. She blinks again. “Do you want something, ma’am?”

I mumble, “White Russian.”

She slots the wine glass into the row of polished ones above her head and turns to mix the drink. Her movement is slow, precise.

“Light on the Kahlua,” I add, too loudly, as if delivering the punchline to a hilarious joke. She exhales what could be mistaken for a laugh, but keeps her back turned. I can’t help but study the way her neck moves, her shoulders, the joints of her arms, the whole slender skeleton. I helped make all that. Not that I deserve credit. If my legal assistant hadn’t traced a paper trail to her last month, I still wouldn’t know she exists.  

Her hip leans in sync with the tilt of the bottle she’s pouring. They put her in one of those ridiculous little bartender outfits, white shirt, black tie, black vest, black slacks—except leggings really, every inch pinching a curve into place. The shirt is tight too. My partner and I parted ways before our creation entered the world, still sexless, a blank slate awaiting programming. Now she looks like a twenty-year-old woman of ambiguous nationality, Middle Eastern maybe. Guatemalan? She turns with my drink and centers it soundlessly on a napkin square.

“Light on the Kahlua,” she says.

“Thank you.” I’m mumbling again, but she must detect the tone, can’t help smiling. Her teeth are an impossible white against her brown lips. Her fingers retract before I can reach the glass. They’re brown too, but not as brown as my former partner’s. She laces them in front of her, poised for the next instruction. Manual labor. That must be all they think she’s good for here. She can’t know she is capable of anything more either.

The nametag on her front pocket reads “ADA.” I lean forward as if I can’t quite make out the letters. The shirt is so tight dark flesh presses through the gaps between buttons. She doesn’t flinch, unaffected by the squint of a gray-haired white woman. I’m even pointing now, at her right breast. “Ada?”

She nods, repeats the syllables as if scanning them phonetically from a screen. I doubt that’s her name. My eyes have drifted back up to her face and so she has to speak. “How is your drink?”

I forgot it was in my hand, both of my hands. I’m strangling it. The ice cubes clack my teeth as I slurp the top. “Perfect,” I say.

She flashes the same meaningless smile she flashed when she slid me the glass. Exactly the same. She hasn’t budged from her stance either, not so far from the bar edge as to suggest aloofness, not so close to imply intimacy. The drink recipes she must have memorized too, thousands probably—though she really did go light on the Kahlua. By which I meant heavy on the vodka, but maybe that is too subtle an inference. We didn’t set out to make the world’s greatest bartender.

At least it’s a decent enough place, plenty of marble downstairs in the lobby, dizzying view up here. I think my room might be ocean-facing too. I haven’t checked in yet. I almost didn’t get out of the cab. If there had been a night flight back out, I might never have left the airport. The pub inside the terminal glowed with neon logos as the bartender tilted foam from a pair of frosted mugs. I kept walking.

Ada’s bar is more upscale but, at the moment, barren. It makes no difference to her. Her arms are draped in front of her, wrist resting in her other hand. She could hold the pose forever, a fixture as permanent as the row of stools bolted to the floor.

“So,” I say. Her eyebrows rise as if she thinks I’m gearing up to something. I’m not. My fingers keep rotating the glass on the fake wood. What is there to say that she could understand? I suck another sip and ask, “You been working here long?”

“As long as I can remember.”

No smile that time, so the line must not be designed to be funny. I chuckle anyway. And so now she is flashing her white teeth again, the crinkles around her eyes deepening with my volume. It’s just stimulus response. Except her pupils aren’t centered on mine. They’re a few inches off, focused somewhere beyond my shoulder. They have been this whole time.

I twist to look at the wall-length window behind me. The black of the sky and the black of the ocean must meet somewhere out there, but it’s all the same from here, and the swirl of stars puncturing it. I wonder whether she is looking at one in particular, whether she can imagine a world almost like this one orbiting it out there, whether it’s even a star to her—or just a needle prick of light. Each is probably no different to her than the flicker of candle light centering each table. I’m not sure if the candles are even real.

It doesn’t matter, but now I’m sliding from my seat to lean over the closest and see the tiny electric filament blinking randomly inside its wax shell. No, the wax isn’t real either, just translucent plastic molded in a drizzle pattern, the same one table top after table top, a constellation of them. They’re pretty though. Everything in the bar is perfectly pretty. I shouldn’t have come.

“One hundred and forty-one,” Ada’s voice declares.

I turn back round. “Sorry?”

She has moved forward, her stomach pressing the bar edge. But she’s still not looking at me. “One hundred and forty-one,” she repeats. She’s looking at my drink, which is in her hand now. She’s swirling it. “The stars,” she says,

When she looks up, I nod, reflexively. “The stars.”

My voice is an echo of hers, so no question mark, nothing to suggest confusion, but she must detect it anyway. “That’s how many you can see right now.” The finger of her other hand is pointing at the window behind me.

I’m nodding again, sincerely now. The stars. She must count them. From boredom, I guess, but still. I begin to rotate back to the window, as if to check her math, make sure she didn’t miss one along the curtain edges, but stop when she lifts my glass to her face. She squints at the milky gray murk, as if searching for something, a specific ice cube or a thread of undissolved color. I want to believe that the swirl is no swirl to her, but precise points of black and white, stars so tiny only she could ever see them.

“You don’t like it.”

“No, no,” I say, “it’s, it’s—” I don’t know if she means the drink or the view. “It’s fine.”

The lip of the glass is only inches from her own lips, but I’m still startled when she tilts a sip and weighs it in her mouth for a long, unblinking moment. The ball of her throat bobs as she swallows and frowns. “Why did you make me change it?”

My mouth opens, but I don’t speak. She must mean the mix, the proportions, Kahlua, vodka, cream. The glass is still hovering next to her cheek.

“I prefer it that way,” I say.

“No, you don’t.”

Without turning her body, even her neck, she extends her arm and dumps the drink into the sink at her side. The ice cubes crackle and skid against the wet metal. She gives the glass one, precise shake and lowers it soundlessly to rest upside. I assume it’s a sink. I still can’t see it. 

I slide back onto my bar stool, expecting her to mix another Russian, but she reaches for one of the glasses above her head instead. It’s true. I should have ordered wine before, and I wonder if she can compute my exact preference too, a dry red, one older than her. But then the white cloth is in her other hand again. She settles the dome of the glass into her palm and begins rotating it again. I watch.

“What do you want?” she asks. I start to quiz her about the vintage years of her cabernets, but she is speaking over me. “The way you paused when you entered, how you kept me in your periphery as you pretended to look around, even the stool you picked, no one sits that far away.” My head doesn’t move, but mine turns reflexively to look. “You didn’t come for a drink.”

I feel my face warming, my smile widening as I stammer an apology. I’m shrugging too, blurting the next inanity that flashes to mind: “I guess I just like the view.” Then I don’t say anything. She is still working the glass around and around. It’s pristine.

“One hundred and forty-two,” she says.

I feel my eyebrows rise high into my forehead, but she doesn’t look up, doesn’t explain.

Then I spin my stool and blink at the swath of stars outside. They look identical to me, but of course they are changing, increment by increment, all night. Her window, the building, this pointless resort, it’s all moving, the whole planet, everything is. She must know every shifting constellation, the machinery of their endlessly possible worlds.

I stare, blinking, waiting for the next pinprick to burst or vanish over the window edge. I don’t even know which direction they’re moving. I can’t see Ada slot the wine glass back into its row behind me. I just hear the click, like a delicate gear.

***

Coincidentally, the story is about an AI. I wrote it for a cognitive-science experiment exploring differences in reader reactions to realistic fiction and science fiction (more on that here). There were two versions, one beginning “My daughter,” the other “My android.” For this experiment, I changed them to “She.”

That’s why I found the output a little uncanny.

ChatGPT responded:

‘The scene you’ve described seems to be a continuation of a narrative or story. It depicts a protagonist named Ada, who is a bartender in an upscale establishment. The protagonist, who seems to have some connection to Ada’s creation, engages in a conversation with her while observing the surroundings and contemplating various aspects of their encounter.

‘The narrative captures the protagonist’s observations of Ada’s physical appearance, her demeanor, and their interaction. It also delves into the protagonist’s internal thoughts and reflections. Ada appears to possess an unusual ability to count stars and perceive details that others might miss, which adds a touch of intrigue to the story.

‘However, without further context or details about the larger plot or storyline, it is challenging to provide a conclusive interpretation or predict what might happen next. If you have any specific questions or directions you’d like the story to take, feel free to let me know, and I’ll be happy to assist you further.’

Aside from one confusion (initially identifying Ada as the protagonist), that’s a pretty good description. It even captures the daughter/android ambiguity, using similarly ambiguous language when describing the narrator as having “some connection to Ada’s creation.” The second paragraph is impressive too, providing accurate impressions about both characters.

It sure as hell looks like ChatGPT understands the story. Unlike Ada (who also appears to understand things), ChatGPT doesn’t. It’s just sorting pixel arrangements (which combine into letter shapes and then word shapes), with no ability to understand what those pixel arrangements mean to readers. ChatGPT can’t read.

Still, the surprising accuracy of the above analysis (a result of its observing and correlating the position of those pixel arrangements in other circumstances) suggests it could output a plausible literary analysis paper.

But I was exploring fiction writing.

I typed:

‘What might happen next in the story?’

ChatGPT:

‘Considering the existing elements of the story, here’s a potential continuation:

‘As the protagonist continues to stare at the mesmerizing expanse of stars outside, Ada’s words echo in their mind: “One hundred and forty-two.” Intrigued by this enigmatic statement, the protagonist turns back to face Ada, curiosity brimming in their eyes.

‘”What do you mean, ‘One hundred and forty-two’?” the protagonist asks, their voice filled with genuine interest.

‘Ada pauses her meticulous glass polishing and meets the protagonist’s gaze, her dark eyes gleaming with a hint of mystery. “That’s the number of stars you can see right now,” she replies, her voice soft yet resolute.

‘Perplexed, the protagonist leans in closer, drawn to Ada’s uncanny ability to perceive details that go unnoticed. “How do you know that? Can you really count the stars?”

‘A knowing smile tugs at the corners of Ada’s lips. “I see patterns in everything, connections that others overlook. The stars reveal their secrets to me, their movements, their ever-changing dance.”

‘Intrigued by Ada’s unique perspective, the protagonist finds themselves drawn further into her world. They realize that Ada possesses an extraordinary gift, one that transcends her role as a bartender.

‘”Tell me more,” the protagonist urges, their voice laced with a mix of curiosity and fascination. “What else can you see? What other mysteries are hidden in plain sight?”

‘Ada’s eyes sparkle with a mix of wisdom and wonder. She begins to share fragments of her knowledge, weaving a tapestry of hidden wonders that exist within the mundane. The protagonist listens intently, captivated by Ada’s revelations and eager to delve deeper into the secrets of the universe.

‘As the night progresses, the bond between the protagonist and Ada deepens, their conversations expanding beyond the confines of the bar. Together, they embark on a journey of discovery, unraveling the mysteries of the cosmos and exploring the limitless possibilities that lie within their grasp.

‘The story takes a transformative turn as the protagonist embraces a newfound understanding of the interconnectedness of all things. They find solace and inspiration in Ada’s unique perspective, and together, they embark on a quest to uncover the secrets of the stars, forging an unbreakable bond along the way.

‘Note: This continuation offers a possible direction for the story based on the existing narrative elements. Feel free to modify or adapt it according to your creative vision or provide specific elements you would like to see in the continuation.’

While not good, the prose is passable. I would even say it’s half decent until the sentence: “‘Ada’s eyes sparkle with a mix of wisdom and wonder.” I would cut last seven words–a kind of edit I inflict on my students routinely. Actually, I would cut everything afterwards too, starting with “She begins to share fragments of her knowledge, weaving a tapestry of hidden wonders that exist within the mundane.” It devolves into summary again, same problem as on my first round.

So I typed:

‘What else might happen while they are talking in the bar?’

ChatGPT:

‘While the protagonist and Ada engage in deep conversation at the bar, their interaction takes an unexpected turn. Here’s a continuation:

‘As the protagonist and Ada continue their conversation, a sudden commotion erupts from the entrance of the bar. A group of rowdy patrons stumbles in, laughing loudly and causing a disruption in the otherwise tranquil ambiance. Their boisterous behavior threatens to interrupt the intimate atmosphere that the protagonist and Ada have created.

‘The protagonist and Ada exchange glances, their curiosity piqued by the sudden disturbance. Without saying a word, Ada gracefully moves away from the bar, seamlessly slipping into action. She approaches the unruly group with a composed demeanor, her presence commanding respect.

‘Using her innate understanding of human behavior, Ada deftly diffuses the situation. With a few carefully chosen words and a disarming smile, she manages to redirect the rowdy patrons’ attention away from the disturbance they were causing. Slowly, their laughter subsides, replaced by a newfound appreciation for Ada’s calm authority.

‘Meanwhile, the protagonist observes Ada’s ability to navigate tense situations with ease, awestruck by her innate skills. The encounter serves as a revelation, deepening the protagonist’s admiration for Ada’s unique abilities and the depth of her understanding of the world.

‘Once the situation has settled, Ada returns to the bar, her poise unshaken. The protagonist meets her gaze, their eyes filled with admiration and newfound respect. They realize that Ada’s talents extend far beyond counting stars — she possesses a remarkable intuition and an innate understanding of human nature.

‘Inspired by Ada’s grace under pressure, the protagonist opens up about their own struggles and uncertainties, seeking solace and guidance. Ada listens attentively, her empathy shining through her expressive eyes. She offers wisdom and reassurance, imparting words that resonate deeply with the protagonist’s journey of self-discovery.

‘As the conversation continues, a bond forms between the protagonist and Ada, transcending the conventional roles of bartender and patron. Their connection becomes a source of inspiration and support, fueling the protagonist’s quest for understanding and personal growth.

‘Together, they explore profound philosophical concepts, delve into the intricacies of human emotions, and unravel the mysteries of existence. Each conversation becomes a transformative experience, guiding the protagonist toward a profound shift in perspective and a deeper connection to the world around them.

‘As the night draws to a close, the protagonist realizes that their encounter with Ada in the bar was no coincidence. Ada’s presence has become an anchor, a guiding light in their journey of self-discovery and the pursuit of profound truths. With newfound purpose, the protagonist leaves the bar, carrying the profound insights and inspiration gained from their conversation with Ada.

‘Note: This continuation builds upon the previous events and explores the impact of Ada’s unique skills and abilities in managing a disruptive situation. It emphasizes the growing connection between the protagonist and Ada, highlighting their shared exploration of deep existential questions. Feel free to adapt and modify the continuation according to your creative vision.’

So here ChatGPT initiated its own plot development, a movement away from the two-character interaction with the introduction of a new group character, before returning to the initial set-up. Wanting to extend and specifify the new conflict, I typed:

‘Describe one of the unruly patrons. What specifically were they doing? What did they and Ada say to each other?’

ChatGPT:

‘One of the unruly patrons in the group is a burly man with a scruffy beard and a booming voice. He has been particularly rowdy, loudly boasting about his exploits and making crude jokes that disrupt the peaceful atmosphere of the bar. His actions and remarks draw the attention of both the protagonist and Ada.

‘As Ada gracefully approaches the group, the burly man, let’s call him Mike, sizes her up with a mix of curiosity and arrogance. He takes a step forward, attempting to assert his dominance.

‘Mike: “Well, well, what do we have here? A pretty little bartender trying to tame the beast? You think you can handle us?”

‘Ada meets Mike’s gaze with calm confidence, unphased by his attempt to intimidate her.

‘Ada: “I believe every situation can be handled with respect and understanding. How about we find a way to enjoy the evening without causing a disturbance?”

‘Mike chuckles, thinking he has the upper hand.

‘Mike: “Respect and understanding, huh? That’s cute. But I didn’t come here for a tea party. I came here to have a good time, and I’ll do it my way.”

‘Ada’s eyes gleam with a hint of amusement, her tone unwavering.

‘Ada: “Having a good time doesn’t mean infringing upon the comfort of others. Let’s find a balance, shall we?”

‘She extends her hand toward Mike, offering a gesture of friendship rather than confrontation. Mike, caught off guard by Ada’s unexpected response, hesitates for a moment before reluctantly shaking her hand.

‘Mike: “Alright, alright. You’ve got some guts, I’ll give you that. Let’s see if you can keep up with us then.”

‘Ada’s smile remains warm, her voice filled with genuine hospitality.

‘Ada: “Challenge accepted. How about we turn this into an evening we can all enjoy? I’ll make sure your drinks keep flowing, and you keep the volume in check. Deal?”

‘Mike grins, appreciating Ada’s willingness to meet him halfway.

‘Mike: “Deal. But don’t be too surprised when we liven things up a bit.”

‘Ada: “As long as it’s within reason, I’m all for it. Let’s make this a memorable night for everyone.”

‘Their exchange sets the tone for a new understanding between Ada and Mike, transforming the once disruptive patron into an active participant in maintaining a harmonious atmosphere. Ada’s skillful navigation of the situation earns her respect from the group, and they gradually begin to embrace a more considerate and inclusive approach to enjoying their evening at the bar.

ChatGPT seems to prefer miniature plot arcs, always closing tension by the end of an entry. Wanting to expand the unpleasant interaction, I typed:

‘What does Ada do if while shaking hands with Mike he tries to kiss her?’

ChatGPT:

‘If, while shaking hands with Mike, he attempts to kiss Ada, she would react swiftly and assertively, maintaining her personal boundaries. Her response would depend on the situation and her comfort level, but here are a few possible reactions:

‘Pulling away and firmly expressing her disapproval: As Mike leans in for the kiss, Ada immediately withdraws her hand, creating a clear physical barrier between them. With a stern look in her eyes, she asserts herself.

‘Ada: “That’s inappropriate, Mike. Let’s keep this professional.”

‘Stepping back and establishing personal boundaries: Ada takes a step back, creating distance and making it clear that any form of unwanted physical contact is unwelcome.

‘Ada: “I’m here to provide a service, not for personal advances. Let’s keep things respectful, shall we?”

‘Assertively addressing the situation: Ada swiftly and assertively blocks Mike’s attempt, maintaining her composure and setting a boundary without hesitation.

‘Ada: “No, absolutely not. That kind of behavior is not tolerated here. Please respect my personal space.”

‘Regardless of the specific response, Ada would make it abundantly clear that any form of inappropriate behavior will not be tolerated. She would firmly assert her boundaries and maintain a professional demeanor while addressing the situation.’

While still not reading as a short story, some details could be extracted. This bit would be passable:

‘As Mike leans in for the kiss, Ada withdraws her hand. “Let’s keep this professional.”‘

Still wanting to extend the moment of tension, I typed:

‘What if Mike refuses to let go of her hand or step back? What happens next?’

ChatGPT:

‘If Mike refuses to let go of Ada’s hand or step back despite her clear indication of discomfort, Ada would need to escalate the situation and ensure her safety. Here’s a possible course of action:

‘Assertive statement and physical resistance: Ada forcefully pulls her hand away from Mike’s grip while using her body language and tone of voice to assert herself.

‘Ada: “Let go of my hand immediately. This behavior is completely unacceptable.”

‘Seeking assistance from security or other staff members: If Mike continues to persist and refuses to respect Ada’s boundaries, she quickly scans the bar for any available security personnel or staff members. She discreetly signals for their attention or approaches them directly to explain the situation and seek their intervention.

‘Ada: (Speaking to a nearby staff member) “Excuse me, there is a customer who is refusing to respect my boundaries. I need your assistance to address the situation.”

‘Enforcing consequences: In collaboration with the security or staff members, appropriate actions would be taken to address Mike’s behavior. This might include removing him from the premises or issuing a warning about his conduct. The goal would be to ensure Ada’s safety and maintain a secure environment for all patrons.

‘The specific actions taken would depend on the establishment’s policies, but the focus would be on resolving the situation promptly and ensuring that Ada’s well-being is prioritized. It is crucial to handle such instances with assertiveness, support from staff or security, and adherence to established protocols to maintain a safe and respectful environment for everyone involved.’

I gave up.

A short story needs specificity and tension, and ChatGPT kept resolving conflict quickly, generally, and unconvincingly.

With more practice I might learn to input better questions — ones that might train it to produce output that better matches my fiction aesthetics.

More on that possibility next week.

Tags: ChatGPT, college creative writing

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