Writing Exercise – “November Rain” (co-authored by my writing buddy, ChatGPT)

As I’ve mentioned before, I’m in a small “Community of Practice” group at Milwaukee School of Engineering, the college where I teach, and am trying to immerse myself both in reading the current scholarship on generative AI (or, “GenAI,” as I sometimes see it called) and in learning everything I can about the new technology by engaging with it in my own writing.

In addition to ChatGPT, everyone in the group has received a license for Microsoft Copilot, the super expensive version that businesses use. Copilot has access to my Outlook, my Teams, my Word and Excel documents, my PowerPoint slideshows (for classroom lectures)—in short, everything associated with Microsoft in my MSOE account. I’ve tried out Copilot just once since getting the license last week, and it screwed up the job lol. I asked it to create a sign-up sheet for student conferences in a two-columned document, and I provided the dates and times for each available slot. Copilot repeated one of the dates. Oops. Thank goodness an eagle-eyed student caught that before I became double booked with two students signed up per slot on that day. Everyone tells me, that I’m going to LOVE Copilot. We’ll see. I have an open mind. However, at the moment I do find myself thinking about that famous Ronald Reagan line, “trust but verify.” (By the way, there’s a really interesting, sort of fun backstory associated with that quote. You can read about it in this Wikipedia article if you, like me, enjoy rabbit holes. Link here: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Trust,_but_verify.)

Anyway, all that is secondary to the main point of today’s post, which is to share another writing exercise with you that I completed with ChatGPT. My writing group does an exercise each week, and lately I’ve been 1) viewing the prompt itself as a heuristic of sorts, almost like an oracular message from the universe providing oblique guidance and insight on my novel and 2) using ChatGPT so I can get in some additional practice with it, a hands-on engagement that helps me understand how it operates in all aspects of writing.

By the way, in response to some excellent comments and questions at the end of recent posts about using ChatGPT in my own writing, I’m currently working on a longer post talking about the reasons why I see GenAI use as something different from old-school plagiarism. I hope it’s not too long of a post, which at the moment it is—WAY too long. Cutting/editing is time consuming, so that’s the source of delay. What’s that Mark Twain quote? He apologized for writing such a long letter, but he didn’t have time to write a short one? I love that! Yep, that’s what’s going on with my “ChatGPT, plagiarism, and originality” post. I haven’t forgotten it. Maybe I should feed it into ChatGPT for some editing help 🙂

So finally, after exhausting you with all that side talk but hoping you’re still here anyway, I present to you my exercise from last week. The prompt was “November rain.” (Which we have had plenty of in Milwaukee so far this month!)

When we left off last time, our 1930s girl, Addy, was feeding the chickens on the bank of Ohio River (where her family’s shantyboat was moored) and thinking about how she’d turn seventeen on her upcoming birthday and wanted to stay in the nearby town to have a senior year in high school instead of traveling downriver to Mississippi for the winter.

This time, for the “November rain” prompt, I decided that Addy got her wish, and she is now living alone in a room in that town, having essentially become an adult, with her parents leaving for the winter. Partly I was inspired in this plot development by the story of Joe Rantz, the protagonist in The Boys in the Boat, an extremely engaging nonfiction account of the rowing team that represented the United States at the 1936 Olympic Games. Joe was more or less abandoned by his family and left to fend for himself at age 15. In the book, no one seems particularly shocked by this turn of events, which leads me to think that such situations were not uncommon during the Depression. So it’s not completely unrealistic for me to have a 17-year-old girl living on her own during the confusing, even catastrophic social and economic upheaval of that era. Adulthood apparently arrived much earlier generations ago than it does today, at least for many young people in developed nations.

My first prompt to ChatGPT clearly wasn’t very good, because what got returned was a scene that I viewed as overly melodramatic and filled with trite, obvious, and clichéd interactions and conversations. I liked my second try better, and then I refined that just a little bit more, to eliminate additional tropes (e.g., the “sturdy” landlady).

This scene needs way more work before I’ll be happy with it, but once again, I enjoyed the experience of discovery, to see what my prompt might result in, to try again. The writing process becomes a game, a back-and-forth “call and response” type conversation. There’s a momentum that deeply engages you, similar to but quite different from the usual experience of writing.

Sadly (?), using ChatGPT isn’t all that much faster when it comes to drafting a text. That’s something I need to emphasize. Done well, writing with ChatGPT can be a fairly time-consuming process.

In fact, my initial, highly negative view of GenAI, generated by a handful of horrible ChatGPT student papers that began arriving out of left field almost two years ago, was a mistake. It was a mistake for me to assume that the mindless (literally) quality of writing I saw in those essays, marked by deceptively smooth prose but devoid of meaningful content, was an intrinsic feature/flaw of the GenAI technology itself. Once I began using ChatGPT in my own work, it became clear that the fault of those essays was not in the technology (“our stars”?) but in the devoid-of-meaningful-content prompts that initiated them (“ourselves”?).

This insight arrived courtesy of an old term from my computer science courses in college: GIGO, or “garbage in, garbage out,” (you can read Wikipedia’s article here: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Garbage_in,_garbage_out).

ChatGPT’s output will be only as good as the input that prompts it.

Which brings to mind a T. S. Eliot quote that I am using in my post on ChatGPT, plagiarism, and originality:

Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal; bad poets deface what they take, and good poets make it into something better, or at least something different. The good poet welds his theft into a whole of feeling which is unique, utterly different from that from which it was torn; the bad poet throws it into something which has no cohesion. A good poet will usually borrow from authors remote in time, or alien in language, or diverse in interest.

But I digress! The main thing, again, is that using ChatGPT well means shaping, reshaping, and reshaping again. You have an initial vision; you write up a prompt: ChatGPT responds; and then you need to “re-vision” it, based on what was returned, and reengage at the new level to build out from what you’ve already created.

And then there’s the editing. Which, talk about tedium! But it’s an extremely necessary part of the job with this technology if you don’t want a garbage text.

You’ll see below that ChatGPT ignored my peanut butter sandwich instruction. I kind of liked the penknife and spreading peanut butter right on the slices. Will I keep it? Maybe. It was a nice surprise, something I hadn’t thought of, something novel. Am I plagiarizing if there’s no bread involved? No, I don’t think so. Is that a hill I’m willing to die on, staking a claim that apple slides spread with peanut butter is still “my work” even if I asked for a sandwich? I suspect that battles over what constitutes plagiarism and “originality” may end up being fought upon the slopes of hills just such as this.

Some items repeat themselves irritatingly so (e.g., Rosie, the favorite reddish-brown chicken from the shantyboat), and I’m not sure why that happens.

The initially returned scene, the overly melodramatic parting of parents and child, brought up the “best of times, worst of times” theme from the previous writing exercise. I hadn’t asked for that, and it seemed ham handed to me (adding greatly to the scene’s melodramatic tone).

Addy’s hair is in braids, but then she tucks her hair behind her ears as she’s heading down the driveway. This somewhat implausible hairstyle seems akin to those six-fingered hands in AI-generated photos. The time is also screwed up. What time is it? How much time has passed? What time does Addy need to be at work? ChatGPT has no trouble making things up, but you need to stay sharp to catch things that don’t make sense.

Finally, also in need of editing are the too-many mentions (in my mind) of the mud, the river, the gray, the rain. I think a little less should go a long way here, so I need to decide where those references are most effective and cut them otherwise. Along those same lines, Mrs. Hooper’s voice “floats” from the kitchen. In the previous scene with the chickens on the riverbank, Addy’s mother’s voice “floats” out from the shantyboat. I liked that verb there, what with being on the water, but Mrs. Hooper’s voice has no reason to “float” out of the kitchen. That’s a tic, whether a fiction-writing tic that’s “out there,” floating about (couldn’t resist) in the collective cyberspace or a tic specific to my prompts and my 1930s time period. In either case, I don’t want anyone else to notice voices floating here there and everywhere. (While I’m in editing mode, I’m not sure “Hooper” is a good name for the widow of a bank president. Gotta think about that one some more.)

And one last (post-finally 🙂 ) thing: I liked bits and pieces from all these drafts, so the next time-consuming thing I’ll need to do is go through them all, carefully and tediously selecting phrases and sentences that I like to assemble them painstakingly into my final version.

My initial prompt, which I added to the “chat” from the previous writing exercise prompt and results:

Write a new scene with this same character, Addy. It is November 1936. Addy’s parents stayed moored on the Ohio River near the town of Adell Ferry so that Addy could have her senior year of high school there. Addy lived on the shantyboat with them for September and October. But now it’s November, and her parents feel some urgency to move downriver to the Mississippi before winter sets in and the Ohio River freezes. If it does freeze, they’ll be trapped.

The nice librarian, Mrs. Paley, helped Addy find a room to let. It’s above her brother-in-law’s men’s clothing store in the center of town. Addy can easily walk to school and to the grocery store. The brother-in-law is letting Addy have the room above the story rent-free in exchange for helping out in the store evenings and weekends, plus doing general cleaning and tidying of the merchandise.

In this scene, Addy’s parents have just finished helping her move into her room. Other lodgers are old Mr. Freeman, age 70, a retired mason; Lorna Rooney, a teller at the bank; and Daniel Swain, a traveling salesman who isn’t around much.

Include description of Addy’s room. It is on the second floor of the building and overlooks the parklike grounds of the town square. She also has a view of the Ohio River, which she is glad for, because it makes her feel connected to her parents. The room has a small chest of drawers, a bed, and a chair. There is an overhead light fixture that Addy finds ugly and a lamp beside the chair that she likes for its cozy, warm light and domestic appearance.

Addy’s mother is crying, saying they’ll get in touch with her as soon as they’ve settled. She suggests sending correspondence to the church in the little town of Albee where they stayed previously. That’s where they intend to winter this year. “My baby,” the mother keeps repeating. Addy’s father is more reserved, but Addy can see that his eyes look watery.

Mention the arrival of November rain. That was the final signal to her parents that it was time for them to leave. Rain nearly every day. Cold, miserable weather. Addy’s mother worries that her baby won’t be adequately clothed for winter weather.

Addy’s parents have given her a fair amount of cash, with instructions on how to scatter it around her room and hide it to keep it safe. Lots of hugs and kisses and final bits of advice. Addy knows that this is the end of her childhood and the beginning of her life as an adult. She won’t be asking her parents for money, which they have offered to send her. She knows they don’t have any extra, and she is resourceful and smart. She is ready and excited even as she is also filled with sadness and dread for the future, both hers and her parents. She wonders if she’ll see her father again, or will his cough worsen even in the warmer climes of the South.

ChatGPT said:

The November rain had arrived in sheets, drumming against the windows as Addy stood in her small new room, watching the gray drizzle blur the world outside. The view was a patchwork of the town square, with its bare, skeletal trees and the muddy path that cut through it. Beyond the square, she could just make out the line of the Ohio River, a silver ribbon in the distance. The rain made it hard to see clearly, but it was there, and for now, that was enough.

Her father leaned against the doorframe, his shoulders slumped a bit more than usual. Addy could tell he was trying to look stoic, but his eyes were misty, betraying him. Her mother sat on the bed, her face in her hands, shoulders shaking. Addy’s heart clenched at the sight of her. This wasn’t how she’d imagined starting her life on her own.

“Addy, honey, are you sure you’ll be all right?” her mother asked, looking up with red-rimmed eyes. “The weather’s turned so cold already. You don’t even have a proper winter coat.”

Addy swallowed hard, her throat tight. “I’ll be fine, Ma. The store’s warm, and I can pick up hours there to make a little extra money. Besides, Mrs. Paley said she’d keep an eye on me.”

Her mother’s lip quivered as she tried to smile. “Mrs. Paley is a good woman. But she’s not me.” She reached out, grabbing Addy’s hands in her own. Her fingers were cold, shaking. “My baby,” she whispered. “Oh, my sweet girl…”

Addy squeezed her mother’s hands, feeling the flood of her own emotions rising up, threatening to spill over. “It’s just until spring,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “We’ll write each other. I’ll send letters to the church in Albee, just like we planned.”

Her mother nodded, but Addy could see the doubt in her eyes. “I’ll get word to you as soon as we settle,” she said, wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand. “Just… don’t forget about us.”

“I could never forget you,” Addy replied, fighting back tears of her own. She glanced at her father, who was staring out the window, his face tight, as if he were trying to keep everything inside. When he finally looked at her, his eyes were glassy, his mouth pressed into a thin line.

“You’ve got a good head on your shoulders, Addy,” he said gruffly. “I’m proud of you. Always have been.”

Addy bit her lip, holding his gaze. “I’m going to make you both proud,” she promised, her voice trembling. It felt like such a small thing to say in the face of this moment, in the face of everything that was changing all at once.

Her father nodded, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. “I know you will.” He stepped forward, pulled her into a hug that was almost too tight. She could feel the roughness of his beard against her cheek, the way his chest shuddered when he breathed. He held her for a long time before letting go.

Her mother pulled out a small pouch from her coat pocket and handed it to Addy. “There’s some cash in here,” she said, her voice trembling. “Not much, but enough to get by. I want you to hide it—split it up and tuck it into your drawers, maybe under the mattress. Don’t keep it all in one place.”

Addy nodded, taking the pouch. It felt heavy in her hand, and she knew what it meant. It was everything they could spare, maybe more. She knew she’d never ask them for money. She couldn’t. They barely had enough for themselves.

“I’ll be careful, Ma,” she said. “I’ll make it last.”

Her mother hugged her again, tighter this time. “You’ve grown up so fast,” she whispered into Addy’s hair. “I still remember when you were just a little thing, running down the riverbank, chasing the chickens. And now look at you. You’re practically a woman.”

Addy pulled back, looking at her mother’s tear-streaked face. She tried to smile, but it felt shaky and small. “I guess this is the end of my childhood, huh?” she said, her voice soft.

Her mother nodded, a fresh wave of tears welling up in her eyes. “It is, sweetheart. It is.”

Addy turned to her room, taking it all in—the narrow bed with its thin blanket, the chest of drawers where she’d stash her clothes and hide her money, the chair by the window with its cozy little lamp. She hated the overhead light, a bare bulb hanging from an ugly fixture, but the lamp on the nightstand cast a warm glow that made the room feel like home, even if only a little bit. She’d have a good view of the river from here, a reminder of her parents as they made their way south.

The rain had been nearly constant for the past week, each downpour a reminder of the urgency her parents felt. The cold, miserable weather meant the river could freeze soon, trapping them in place if they didn’t leave now. They’d made the decision to go, and she couldn’t argue. They had to move on before winter set in. But that didn’t make this goodbye any easier.

She turned back to her parents. Her father was staring out the window again, his eyes far away, as if he could already see the river pulling them away from her. Her mother was still crying, her hands pressed to her mouth.

“Take care of each other,” Addy said, her voice thick with tears she was trying to hold back. “And take care of Pa, Ma. Keep him warm.”

Her mother nodded, her face crumpling. “I will, I promise. And you take care of yourself, Addy. Promise me you’ll wear your scarf and hat. It gets so cold here in the winter.”

Addy gave a watery smile. “I promise, Ma. I’ll be fine. I’ve got this.”

Her father stepped forward again, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “We’ll see you again, Addy. You know we will. Come springtime, we’ll be right back up here, looking for you.”

Addy nodded, but in her heart, she wasn’t sure. She could see the wear in his face, the way the sickness had hollowed out his cheeks, the cough that had become a constant, rattling sound in his chest. She wondered if this was the last time she’d see him, if he’d make it through the winter. But she didn’t say it. She couldn’t.

They hugged one last time, and then her parents pulled away, her mother wiping her eyes, her father giving her a final nod before turning to leave. Addy watched them go, standing in the doorway of her room as they made their way down the narrow stairs, her mother glancing back once, twice, as if she couldn’t bear to leave her behind.

When they were finally gone, the room felt impossibly quiet. Addy closed the door, leaning her forehead against the cool wood. She let out a shaky breath, tears slipping down her cheeks as she realized she was truly alone for the first time in her life.

This was it—the beginning of her life as an adult. No more asking her parents for help, no more running down the riverbank to her mother’s arms. It was just her now, in this small room above a men’s clothing store, with the rain tapping at the window and the gray November sky pressing down on her.

Addy wiped her tears away, took a deep breath, and straightened up. She had work to do, a life to build. She’d make it through the winter, finish school, and figure out what came next. She had to. It was the best of times, it was the worst of times—she’d just have to make the best of it.

My follow-up prompt:

This is not quite what I was looking for. Let’s try again. Instead of living over the men’s clothing store, Addy has already moved into a room in an old house just off of the main street of shops, on First Street. The house is on the bluff above the Ohio River, and Addy’s room on the third floor, basically a former maid’s room in the attic, has a small window overlooking the river. The scene is happening now. Addy is stopping back home to drop her school books in her room before walking several blocks to the men’s store where she has a job. She won’t get home till 9:00 tonight, but Mrs. Hooper, the widowed landlady will have kept her dinner warm for her in the oven.

It is raining again. November rain is a primary theme in this scene. The rain is gentle but cold. The sky is constantly overcast, no sun. The days are all the same. Like watercolors where the colors have run together and produced a colorless muddy shade. Addy is happy but tired. It is Thursday. Two Saturdays ago, almost two weeks now, Addy said goodbye to her parents and moved in. Keep some of that scene, but as flashbacks. Addy is remembering as she tidies her room, eats a quick snack of an apple and a peanut butter sandwich. Show some of that day, moving and saying goodbye to her parents, but take out the melodrama and sentimentality. Change the tone to be more matter of fact. Addy is sad about the departure of her parents, but she likes school, she likes her rooming house, she likes her job.

Her job. She works with men, waits on men. She never knew she could feel so natural around men. It’s kind of exciting to her. Sometimes boys from school come in, and she likes talking with them.

Addy puts on her raincoat and walks down the back stairs. She usually comes and goes this way. She also works for her landlady doing cleaning, helping with the laundry, taking care of the chickens in the far backyard in the coop and fenced area along the bluff. The rain has let up some. She stands at the fence talking nonsense to the chickens, remembering Rosie, hoping her family is safe, hoping her father’s cough isn’t too bad. Then she walks down the driveway, headed toward town.

ChatGPT said:

Addy pushed open the narrow door to her attic room, shaking the rain from her coat as she stepped inside. The small window on the far wall framed a view of the Ohio River, the water merging with the colorless sky under a curtain of cold November rain. She dropped her school books on the small table by the bed, the sound of them landing with a thud. It was just after four, and the room was dim, filled with the quiet patter of rain on the roof.

The room was cozy in its own way, despite being little more than a converted maid’s quarters. The sloped ceiling made her feel like she was in a nest tucked high above the world. A small, scuffed chest of drawers held her clothes, and there was a single chair by the window where she liked to sit and watch the river flow by. It wasn’t much, but it was hers, and she felt a sense of ownership that was new and heady.

Addy pulled out an apple and a jar of peanut butter from the drawer where she kept her snacks. She hadn’t had time to eat lunch today—too busy catching up on a geometry assignment she’d fallen behind on. She cut the apple into slices with her pocketknife and spread peanut butter on each one, taking a bite as she leaned against the window ledge. The river looked swollen and brown, its banks hidden beneath the rising water. Rain had fallen almost every day for weeks now. It was like the sky had decided to open up and wash everything clean.

As she chewed, Addy let her thoughts drift back to two Saturdays ago, when her parents had helped her move into this room. The memory was sharp and clear in her mind, like it had happened just yesterday. She could still see her mother carefully smoothing the bedspread, her hands lingering on the quilt as if trying to leave a piece of herself behind. Her father had stood by the window, looking out at the river with that faraway look he got sometimes, the one that made her feel like he was already halfway downriver in his mind.

“You’ve got a good spot here, Addy,” he’d said, his voice a bit rough. “You can see the river. It’ll be like we’re not so far away.”

Addy had nodded, her heart heavy but her head filled with a strange, bubbling excitement. She was sad to see them go, but she’d wanted this for so long—her own place, a chance to finish school and maybe figure out what came next. They’d hugged, the three of them standing awkwardly in the small room. Her mother had fussed over her, giving her last-minute instructions about money, about keeping warm, about being careful.

But then they were gone, their footsteps fading down the stairs, the door swinging shut behind them. And Addy had stood there, feeling the room settle around her, quiet and still. She hadn’t cried, hadn’t even felt like crying. Instead, she’d taken a deep breath, looked out at the river, and felt a strange lightness in her chest. It was the beginning of something new.

She finished the last slice of apple, licking the peanut butter off her fingers. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, just a fine mist now. Addy glanced at the clock—half past four. She had to be at the men’s store in thirty minutes. Time to get moving.

She grabbed her raincoat from the hook by the door and shrugged it on, checking her reflection in the small, cracked mirror. Her hair was a little wild, curls escaping from her braids, but she didn’t mind. She liked the way it made her look—a little older, a little tougher. With one last glance around her room, she headed down the narrow back stairs, her footsteps echoing in the quiet house.

Mrs. Hooper’s voice floated up from the kitchen as Addy passed by. “Dinner will be in the oven for you when you get home, Addy,” she called out. “I made a beef stew. It’ll keep you warm after all this rain.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Hooper!” Addy called back. She liked Mrs. Hooper, a sturdy woman with a kind face. Living here felt like a good compromise between being on her own and still having someone looking out for her.

She pushed open the back door and stepped into the yard. The rain had let up, but everything was soaked and shining. The world was washed in shades of gray, the trees stripped bare of their leaves, the ground a muddy mess. The backyard stretched out to the edge of the bluff, where the chickens were pecking around in their fenced-in area. Addy made her way over, the mud sucking at her shoes.

“Hey there, ladies,” she said, leaning on the fence. The chickens clucked and scratched, barely acknowledging her presence. She smiled, her mind flashing back to Rosie, her favorite reddish-brown hen back on the shantyboat. Rosie had always been the first to greet her, clucking happily as if she were a puppy. Addy wondered how she was doing, if her mother was taking care of her the way she liked, letting her out to forage along the riverbank.

“I hope you’re staying warm, Rosie,” Addy murmured, reaching out to stroke one of the hens pecking near the fence. She felt a pang of longing, a sharp stab of homesickness for the shantyboat, the life she’d left behind. She wondered how her father was faring, if his cough had gotten any worse. The colder weather would have made it harder for him, she knew. She hoped they’d made it downriver before the worst of it set in.

But she couldn’t dwell on it. There was work to do, and standing here in the cold wouldn’t help anyone. Addy pulled up her hood, tucked her hair behind her ears, and started down the driveway, her shoes slipping a little in the mud. She took a deep breath of the damp, chilly air, feeling the familiar buzz of excitement mixed with nervousness in her stomach.

Working at the men’s store had been a surprise in so many ways. She’d never imagined herself behind a counter, helping men pick out ties and hats, measuring inseams, wrapping up packages. But she liked it, the sense of purpose it gave her, the way she felt capable and grown-up. And she liked the conversations she had, the way she could make people laugh or feel at ease. Even the boys from school who came in—at first, she’d felt shy around them, but now she found she liked talking with them, teasing them a bit. It was a new side of herself she hadn’t known existed.

She reached the end of the driveway and turned onto the sidewalk, the town spread out before her, muted and gray under the rain. It was a short walk to the shop, just a few blocks. She passed the library, its lights glowing warmly through the windows, and she made a mental note to stop in there soon. Mrs. Paley had been kind to her, letting her take out books even without a card. It would be nice to sit and read by the big front windows, to lose herself in a story for a while.

But for now, she had work to do, a life to live. Addy squared her shoulders and picked up her pace, the rain pattering gently on her hood, the cold November air biting at her cheeks. She was ready for whatever came next.

I replied:

Much better! I like this. Take out the mud as Addy walks down the driveway. Have her avoid a puddle instead. Mrs. Hooper should not be sturdy. She is skinny and wiry, capable, shrewd (somehow reminding Addy of Rosie the chicken). Mrs. Hooper’s husband died a few years ago, shortly after the bank failed (he was president) and after a short period of mourning and shame (was it suicide? no one knew but everyone gossiped), she pulled herself together and began taking in boarders. Rewrite the passage with these changes, but pretty much keep everything else. I like it!

ChatGPT said:

“You’ve got a good spot here, Addy,” he’d said, his voice a bit rough. “You can see the river. It’ll be like we’re not so far away.”

Se grabbed her raincoat from the hook by the door and shrugged it on, checking her reflection in the small, cracked mirror. Her hair was a little wild, curls escaping from her braids, but she didn’t mind. She liked the way it made her look—a little older, a little tougher. With one last glance around her room, she headed down the narrow back stairs, her footsteps echoing in the quiet house.

“Thanks, Mrs. Hooper!” Addy called back. She liked Mrs. Hooper—a skinny, wiry woman with a sharp gaze that could slice right through you. There was something almost birdlike about her, the way she moved quickly and decisively, like a hen pecking at grain. It made Addy think of Rosie, her favorite reddish-brown chicken back on the shantyboat.

Mrs. Hooper’s husband had died a few years back, shortly after the bank where he’d been president went under. There had been whispers around town—maybe it was suicide, maybe just a broken heart or the weight of shame. No one knew for sure, but the gossip buzzed for months. Addy admired the way Mrs. Hooper had pulled herself together. Instead of sinking into her grief, she’d thrown open the doors of her big, empty house and started taking in boarders. Now she was shrewd, practical, and fiercely independent—just the kind of woman Addy hoped she’d become one day.

Addy pushed open the back door and stepped into the yard. The rain had let up, just a fine drizzle now, turning the world into a blur of wet grays and browns. She avoided a large puddle at the base of the steps, the water shimmering with ripples from the raindrops. The backyard stretched out to the edge of the bluff, where the chickens were pecking around in their fenced-in area. Addy made her way over, the damp air cool against her cheeks.

“Hey there, ladies,” she said, leaning on the fence. The chickens clucked and scratched, barely acknowledging her presence. She smiled, her mind flashing back to Rosie. Rosie had always been the first to greet her, clucking happily as if she were a puppy. Addy wondered how she was doing, if her mother was taking care of her the way she liked, letting her out to forage along the riverbank.

But she couldn’t dwell on it. There was work to do, and standing here in the cold wouldn’t help anyone. Addy pulled up her hood, tucked her hair behind her ears, and started down the driveway, the gravel crunching under her shoes. She took a deep breath of the damp, chilly air, feeling the familiar buzz of excitement mixed with nervousness in her stomach.

I said:

I really liked this section from the previous draft. Can you merge it somehow with the same section in the most recent draft. I liked this version’s backyard scene a little better, and I liked the first line that talked about how living in the boarding house was a good compromise, on her own but being taken care of by Mrs. Hooper. Rewrite the scene with a merger of this part from the previous draft with the most recent version: Living here felt like a good compromise between being on her own and still having someone looking out for her.

ChatGPT said:

Living here felt like a good compromise between being on her own and still having someone looking out for her. Mrs. Hooper was shrewd and wiry, more capable than most folks Addy knew. She ran the boarding house with a sharp eye and a firm hand, but she also made sure Addy had warm meals and a place that felt, if not exactly like home, then at least like a safe harbor.

Addy pushed open the back door and stepped into the yard. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, a fine mist that coated everything in a wet sheen. The backyard sloped gently to the edge of the bluff, and from here, she could see the wide, brown expanse of the Ohio River, swollen from the endless November rain. Everything looked washed out, painted in shades of gray and muted brown, the colors bleeding together like a watercolor left in the rain.

She made her way across the yard, avoiding a large puddle at the base of the steps. The air was cool and damp, the kind that seeped into your bones and made you shiver even under a coat. The chickens were scratching around in their fenced area near the bluff, pecking at the wet ground. Addy leaned against the fence, watching them with a small smile.

“Hey there, ladies,” she called, her voice low and soft. The hens clucked and shuffled, their feathers ruffled from the drizzle. They didn’t pay her much mind, too busy with their foraging. Addy’s smile widened as she thought of Rosie, her favorite reddish-brown hen back on the shantyboat. Rosie had been different from the rest, always the first to greet her, pecking at her shoes and clucking as if she were trying to hold a conversation.

“I hope you’re staying warm, Rosie,” Addy murmured. She wondered if her mother was letting Rosie out to forage along the riverbank the way she liked, or if the rain had kept them cooped up. Her thoughts drifted to her father, and she felt a pang of worry. The cold, damp weather wouldn’t be good for his cough. She hoped they had made it south in time, that the warmer air would give him some relief.

Addy pulled up the hood of her raincoat, shaking off the damp chill that clung to her skin. The rain had stopped, but the air was still heavy with moisture, and the ground was slick and shining. She took a deep breath, the damp, earthy smell of wet leaves filling her lungs. This yard, this place—it wasn’t the shantyboat, but it had its own kind of comfort. She liked taking care of the chickens, liked the simple, repetitive tasks that kept her grounded. It reminded her of home, of the rhythm of life on the river, even as everything else around her changed.

She glanced at the clocktower in the distance, visible above the rooftops of the town. She had just enough time to get to the men’s store before her shift. She liked her job there, liked the way she felt capable and grown-up helping customers, mostly men, pick out hats and ties, or wrapping up packages with crisp, precise folds. It was a new experience for her, being around men who weren’t her father or the rough shantyboat folks she’d grown up with. Sometimes boys from school would come in, and she found herself enjoying the easy banter, the way she could make them laugh or tease them a bit.

Addy gave the fence a final tap and turned back toward the house. She slipped down the narrow, gravelly driveway, her shoes crunching on the wet stones. The rain had let up just enough to give the air a fresh, clean scent. She felt a small thrill of independence, a sense of stepping into a new part of her life. It was exciting, and a little terrifying, knowing she was on her own now. Not completely—Mrs. Hooper was here, and her parents were just a letter away, wherever they docked next—but still, this was the start of something. A new chapter, one where she had to find her own way.

Addy carefully avoided a deep puddle in the driveway, the water shimmering under the faint gray light. The town spread out ahead of her, quiet and still in the late afternoon drizzle. She tucked her hands into her pockets and started walking, the familiar path to the men’s store ahead of her, the river whispering behind her, always a reminder of where she’d come from.