Lately, I have been trying two things as an experiment with my writing group exercises. First, I’ve been using every prompt as a jumping-off point to initiate a scene for my novel. Second, I’m setting every scene up with a prompt in ChatGPT as a booster for my ideas and as a quick way to generate a (very) rough draft. I’m having fun with this.

Writing as an act of discovery has taken on surprising new dimensions. I love putting ideas together and seeing what happens. The ChatGPT output is definitely “rough,” but reshaping it and crafting those scenes into finished passages will be a behind-the-scenes, painstaking, and time-consuming job, although certainly satisfying in its own way, and I look forward to sharing my story in final form someday.

Meanwhile, I’m enjoying the “discovery” phase of writing these scenes immensely. Working with ChatGPT is like having a really smart, quick-witted partner who can synthesize your ideas and execute them quickly so that you can, equally quickly, reject the things that aren’t right and amplify the things that are.

Some ChatGPT background for you if you haven’t yet tried this tool. When you start a new project, you basically begin a new “chat,” similar to a string of text messages on a phone or a conversational thread on a social media platform.

All of these scenes with Addy, the 1930s era in my novel, are part of one long “chat.” Each time I write a new scene, I just add a new section of conversation to the same thread of previous prompts and ChatGPT-returned results. What’s kind of neat about this is that in writing this week’s scene, ChatGPT reached back to my earlier prompts and took background information from them to build out today’s scene. For example, I mentioned a conversation that happens among the boarders at the rooming house where Addy lives, and ChatGPT remembered information from a discarded prompt (I didn’t like the scene and asked for a rewrite based on a new prompt) to supply the other boarders’ names and even added context based on their occupations.

My original plan was to introduce Addy and then murder her. Not in any direct, graphic way; we’d simply find out in the 1970s and the contemporary portions of the novel (via local lore and via microfilm newspaper articles) that Addy fell victim to a 1930s serial killer. But now that I’ve met Addy and gotten to know her, I’m too attached. Killing her off feels like a betrayal, like a bait and switch where I introduced a likeable character and tricked readers (including me!) into caring about her, and then BAM! She’s dead. Karen and I had a great conversation about this at our meeting today, searching for alternatives that could keep her alive. We didn’t figure out any specifics, but maybe some other shantyboat girl will die in her place, some cipher of a character that we can feel sorry for but not actually grieve too much!

Karen asked me today if I felt like using ChatGPT was cheating, and I told her no. I told her about some of the fragmented, theoretical “lenses” I’m using to frame my thinking, which she was kind enough to listen to and act as a sounding-board/alpha reader for. I want to start posting that discussion in mini-installments, maybe thinker/idea by thinker/idea at first, to keep the posts manageable, and then once I’ve done that, I can put it all together in one long post or article. Anyway, as (I think) I’ve said before, my dissertation topic was plagiarism (“The Problematics of Plagiarism,” in case you’re curious, which for an academic dissertation is a nice, short title, not to mention alliterative 🙂 ), and I’ve been deeply curious about the relationship between plagiarism and originality for years. Generative AI is something different from plagiarism, in my opinion. It’s a new kind of originality. Badly-written student ChatGPT papers that result from lazy misuse of the tool may reflect academic dishonesty, for sure, but thoughtful, well-informed use of the tool is something else again.

But that’s a discussion for the coming week, or whenever I feel like my grading is under control enough again that I have time to write those posts.

Meanwhile, below is the string of prompts and resulting drafts of the latest scene from the 1930s era of my novel. I haven’t thrown in my usual writing-exercise disclaimer in a while, so here it is, as well. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

And now, my exercise, incorporating both this week’s writing group prompt of “bridges” and my ongoing ChatGPT chat on the 1930s portion of my novel.

1)  My initial prompt, for today’s first draft

Write a scene in which Addy is sitting in the kitchen with her landlady eating her warmed up stew. Addy has just returned from her job at the menswear store. It is about a 20-minute walk to the boarding house where she lives.

Addy and the landlady are talking about a conversation that had happened the previous weekend. It is Monday night, and on the previous Saturday, Addy had been eating dinner with all the rest of the borders, when a conversation ensued that Addy hadn’t really understood. It was about bridges. The new bridges that were going across the Ohio river up and down stream. Mr. Delaney, who was a traveling salesman, said, “it’s all about the bridges. If you keep an eye on the bridges, you’ll understand what’s coming.” Addy does not understand, but Mrs. Hudson, the landlady had seemed to understand and had carried on quite an involved conversation. The other borders seemed as befuddled as Addy. She knows Mrs. Hudson is extremely intelligent, and Addy wants to understand. Mrs. Hudson explains that the bridges are a sign of progress, and progress leads us into the future. The future of Adell Ferry does not look good because no one crosses by ferry anymore, they drive to the bridges. It is not good for Adell Ferry that it is at a bow in the river. The distance between two bridges would be much shorter with a road connecting them directly, rather than along the meandering river road, leaving their town cut off, with no reason for anyone to stop there anymore. The future is going to leave Adell Ferry behind, the landlady tells her. In the course of talking about bridges, the landlady also says that the river itself is going to change. This is progress, taming the water and making it work for us, taming nature, taming the rivers. Just look at all the dams they’re building up and down the Mississippi, the landlady says. Look at the Tennessee Valley Authority and the dams they are building. Think about that gigantic dam they are building on the Columbia River in Washington state. That is the future. She tells Addy that “your parents are so lucky they got to live your father’s dream before it got taken away by the future.”

Addy is upset and confesses that she is very concerned for her future. She doesn’t know what to do or where to go. “I think my father is dying,” she tells the landlady. “My parents sold everything to live on that boat, and my father’s cough is getting worse and worse.” Addy begins to cry. “I don’t know if I’m ever going to see him again,” she says. The landlady comforts her and tells Addy that, like her, she is a survivor. You know what it is to work hard, she tells Addy. You will always do what is necessary to survive. Ignore variations in spelling in this prompt. The two characters are Addy and Mrs. Hudson. The town they live in is Adell Ferry. Two themes to emphasize in this scene are safety and survival. Mrs. Hudson is safe, her kitchen is warm, there is always delicious food to eat. Addy used to be hungry on the shantyboat. The future is frightening, Addy’s parents’ situation is precarious, progress is an imperceptible enemy–or is it? Mrs. Hudson has survived her husband’s death, her own scary financial situation, and also the shame of the bank failure. But she didn’t lose her house and she is facing the future with grit. Addy works hard. Mrs. Hudson believes in her. The warm kitchen, the filling stew, and Mrs. Hudson all make her feel safe. Regarding survival, Addy feels guilty that she stayed in Adell Ferry. She is working five hours a day 4:00 – 9:00 PM on school nights and 8 hours on Saturdays. She’s seventeen. But she might never see her father again. Mrs. Hudson tells her that survival is a choice, and in her opinion it is always the right one.

ChatGPT said:

Addy sat at the worn wooden table in Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen, the warmth from the stove filling the small space. Her raincoat hung on a peg by the door, dripping faintly onto the tiled floor. She had walked home from the store in a steady drizzle, her shoes damp, her hair frizzing slightly around her face. The room smelled of stew—carrots, onions, and beef—and the familiar scent made her stomach growl. Mrs. Hudson placed a steaming bowl in front of her, followed by a plate of thick slices of bread.

“Eat up, girl,” Mrs. Hudson said, sitting down across from her with a cup of tea. Her wiry frame seemed smaller in the soft light of the kitchen, but her sharp eyes sparkled with their usual intelligence.

“Thank you,” Addy murmured, dipping her spoon into the stew. The first bite warmed her from the inside out, and she felt her body begin to relax.

They ate in companionable silence for a while, the rain tapping lightly against the window. Addy couldn’t help but think back to Saturday evening, when all the boarders had gathered for supper. The conversation had been lively at first—Mr. Freeman sharing tales of his days as a mason, Lorna Rooney complaining about a demanding customer at the bank—but then Mr. Delaney had made his comment about bridges.

“It’s all about the bridges,” he’d said, his tone conspiratorial as he pointed his fork in the air. “If you keep an eye on the bridges, you’ll understand what’s coming.”

Addy had glanced around the table, puzzled. Mr. Freeman had looked equally mystified, and Lorna Rooney had raised an eyebrow, but Mrs. Hudson had leaned forward, nodding as if she understood perfectly. She and Mr. Delaney had talked for a good ten minutes, their words flying too fast and heavy for Addy to follow. She’d felt like an outsider, trying to grasp the meaning of something just out of reach.

“Mrs. Hudson,” Addy said now, setting down her spoon. “On Saturday, you and Mr. Delaney were talking about bridges. What did he mean?”

Mrs. Hudson set her tea down and gave Addy a long, measured look. “He meant progress,” she said simply.

“Progress?” Addy repeated, frowning.

“Yes. Bridges are more than just things that span a river. They’re symbols of the future. Adell Ferry is named for the ferry that used to carry folks across the river. But who needs a ferry anymore? People drive to the bridges now. They’re faster, more convenient. And that’s the problem for this town. We’re at a bend in the river, and the bridges are upstream and downstream. There’s no reason for anyone to stop here anymore.”

Addy leaned back in her chair, the words settling heavily. “So… Adell Ferry’s being left behind?”

Mrs. Hudson nodded. “That’s the way of things. Progress doesn’t wait for anyone. And it’s not just here. The river itself is changing. They’re building dams up and down the Mississippi, controlling the water, taming it. Look at the Tennessee Valley Authority. Look at that massive dam they’re building on the Columbia River out west. The world’s changing, Addy, and it’s not going to stop.”

Addy stared down at her half-eaten stew, her appetite fading. “My parents are so lucky,” Mrs. Hudson continued, her tone softening, “that they got to live your father’s dream before it was taken away. The river as he knew it is disappearing. It’s progress, yes, but it’s also an end.”

The mention of her parents made Addy’s throat tighten. “I think my father’s dying,” she blurted, her voice barely above a whisper. She looked up, her eyes filling with tears. “My parents sold everything to live on that boat, and now his cough just keeps getting worse. I don’t even know if I’ll ever see him again.”

Mrs. Hudson reached across the table and took Addy’s hand in her own. Her grip was firm, steady. “Addy, you’ve survived so much already,” she said. “You’ve worked hard, you’ve kept going. That’s what survival is. It’s a choice. And it’s always the right one.”

Addy shook her head, tears slipping down her cheeks. “But what if I shouldn’t have stayed? What if I should’ve gone with them? I’m working, I’m going to school, but—” Her voice broke. “I feel like I abandoned them.”

“You didn’t abandon anyone,” Mrs. Hudson said firmly. “Your parents wanted this for you. They wanted you to have a future. Staying here, finishing school, working—that’s not abandoning them. That’s honoring their sacrifice.”

Addy swallowed hard, the words sinking in. The warmth of the kitchen, the solid feel of Mrs. Hudson’s hand, the taste of the stew—they were all small reminders that she was safe, that she was surviving. She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself.

“You’re a survivor, Addy,” Mrs. Hudson said. “Just like me. Life knocks us down, but we get back up. We keep going. And one day, you’ll look back on this moment and see how strong it made you.”

Addy nodded, wiping her eyes. She picked up her spoon again, the stew now lukewarm but comforting nonetheless. Mrs. Hudson leaned back in her chair, sipping her tea, and the rain continued its steady rhythm against the window. The future still loomed, uncertain and frightening, but for now, the kitchen was warm, the stew was filling, and Addy felt just a little less alone.

2)  My follow-up prompt, for today’s second draft

Very nice! But maybe a bit too heavy on the survival emphasis. Mrs. Hudson is a little too direct in her pronouncements about the future. Please write another draft and tone those two elements down a bit.

ChatGPT said:

Addy sat at the kitchen table, a steaming bowl of stew in front of her, the savory aroma filling the small space. The warmth from the stove made the air cozy and soft, a stark contrast to the cold drizzle she’d walked through on her way home. Her raincoat hung on a peg near the door, its hem still dripping faintly onto the tiled floor. The kitchen had become her favorite room in the boarding house, with its mismatched chairs and the steady hum of Mrs. Hudson’s presence.

Mrs. Hudson, thin and wiry, sat across from her, sipping tea. Her sharp eyes darted to Addy’s plate. “Eat, child. No sense in letting good food go cold.”

Addy smiled faintly and lifted her spoon. The stew was rich and filling, the kind of meal that felt like it stuck to your ribs. She chewed slowly, letting the warmth spread through her, but her mind wasn’t on the food. “Mrs. Hudson,” she said after a moment, setting her spoon down. “On Saturday, at dinner… when Mr. Delaney said that thing about the bridges… I didn’t understand what he meant. But you did.”

Mrs. Hudson tilted her head, her expression sharpening. “Oh, the bridges.” She tapped a finger on the table, as if sorting her thoughts. “Well, he’s not wrong. The bridges tell a story if you know how to read it.”

“What story?” Addy asked, leaning forward.

Mrs. Hudson sighed and sat back, her tea steaming faintly in the light of the overhead lamp. “Bridges are about connections. They bring people together—or take them past you. Adell Ferry used to be a stop for everyone. You needed the ferry to cross the river. Now? Folks just drive to the bridges. They don’t stop here anymore. Progress is like that—it changes everything, sometimes for the better, sometimes not.”

Addy frowned, her thoughts swirling. “So… the bridges are why Adell Ferry is struggling?”

“That’s part of it,” Mrs. Hudson said. “But it’s more than that. Progress has a way of leaving places behind. We’re at a bend in the river, and that’s not where people want to be anymore. It’s easier to drive straight across on a bridge than to come through town. That’s just how things go.”

Addy stirred her stew absently, watching the flicker of shadows on the walls. “It’s strange,” she said softly. “The river was everything to my parents. It felt like freedom, like possibility. But now it feels like… something else.”

Mrs. Hudson nodded, her expression unreadable. “The river’s changing, too. They’re taming it, building dams and locks. The water’s not wild anymore—it’s being controlled, put to work. That’s progress, too.”

Addy hesitated, her throat tightening. “I’m worried about my parents,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “My father’s cough keeps getting worse. They sold everything for that boat, and now… I don’t even know if I’ll see him again.”

Mrs. Hudson reached out and placed a bony hand over Addy’s. Her touch was cool but steady. “They’re doing what they thought was best, Addy. Just like you are. It’s not easy, any of it, but they wanted you here, safe and building your future.”

Addy’s eyes filled with tears, but she blinked them away, embarrassed. “I feel guilty,” she admitted. “Like I should have stayed with them. I hate thinking of them out there, and I’m here in this warm kitchen.”

Mrs. Hudson’s lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes softening. “Guilt doesn’t change anything, child. Your parents made their choice, and you made yours. You’re not abandoning them by being here—you’re doing what they hoped you’d do.”

Addy nodded, though her chest still felt heavy. She picked up her spoon again, the stew now only lukewarm but comforting in its own way. Mrs. Hudson sat back and sipped her tea, her gaze drifting to the window where the rain blurred the world beyond.

“Keep eating,” Mrs. Hudson said gently. “The rain’s not letting up, and you need your strength.”

Addy smiled faintly, the warmth of the kitchen seeping into her bones. The future still felt like an unknown, full of shifting currents and bridges to nowhere. But here, in the moment, the stew was good, the kitchen was warm, and Mrs. Hudson’s quiet strength made her feel just a little steadier.

3) My third prompt:

Good, but emphasize that if someone built a road connecting the bridges upstream and downstream, the straight line between them would completely isolate Adell Ferry. And progress likes straight lines, not a meandering highway along the riverbend

ChatGPT said:

Addy sat at the kitchen table, a warm bowl of stew in front of her, its aroma filling the small, tidy kitchen. Her coat dripped faintly from its peg by the door, the steady patter of rain outside mingling with the low hum of the stove. Mrs. Hudson sat across from her, cradling a mug of tea in her wiry hands, her sharp eyes glinting in the light of the overhead lamp.

Living here felt like a compromise, Addy thought—a step toward being on her own, but with someone looking out for her. And tonight, the warmth of the kitchen wrapped around her like a quilt.

“Eat your stew,” Mrs. Hudson said, nodding at Addy’s spoon. “No sense letting it go to waste after I kept it warm for you.”

Addy obeyed, taking a slow bite, savoring the way the flavors filled her. She stirred her spoon idly for a moment before speaking. “On Saturday, when Mr. Delaney said that thing about the bridges… I didn’t understand it. Something about keeping an eye on them?”

Mrs. Hudson gave a wry smile and leaned back in her chair, her mug resting on the table. “Ah, Delaney’s a talker, but he’s got a point. Bridges tell you a lot about where the world’s headed.”

Addy frowned, setting her spoon down. “What do you mean?”

Mrs. Hudson’s gaze drifted toward the window, where the rain blurred the darkness outside. “Progress likes straight lines, Addy. The road from one bridge to the other—it should run straight. But it doesn’t, not now. It winds through Adell Ferry, following the riverbend. For now, that’s what keeps us on the map. But someday, someone’s going to build a road that goes straight between those bridges. And when they do? There’ll be no reason for anyone to come through here.”

Addy felt a chill unrelated to the rain outside. “But the town… it’s always been here.”

Mrs. Hudson’s mouth tightened into a thin line. “So’s the river. But they’re taming it now, Addy. Dams, locks, reservoirs—progress doesn’t care about what’s been. It cares about what’s next. And straight roads are what’s next. One day, people will look at a map and see two bridges connected by a single line. Adell Ferry? It’ll just be a dot they don’t stop for.”

Addy looked down at her bowl, her appetite waning. “That’s awful,” she murmured.

Mrs. Hudson shrugged, her expression practical. “It’s just the way things go. When progress comes, you either figure out how to keep up or you’re left behind. I know this house feels solid, but I’ve had to fight to keep it standing.”

Addy thought about her parents on the shantyboat, drifting with the currents, and how her father’s cough had sounded the last time she saw him. “I don’t even know if I’ll see them again,” she said suddenly, her voice trembling. “My father’s so sick, and they sold everything for that boat. If something happens…” Her words trailed off as tears threatened to spill over.

Mrs. Hudson set her mug down and leaned across the table, her hand resting lightly on Addy’s. “They’re doing what they thought was right for them. And you’re doing what’s right for you.”

“But it feels wrong,” Addy said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Like I left them behind.”

Mrs. Hudson’s grip tightened just a fraction. “They wanted you here, Addy. Safe. Building something for yourself. That’s not leaving them behind—it’s honoring what they worked for.”

Addy blinked back her tears, trying to hold on to Mrs. Hudson’s words. She picked up her spoon and took another bite of stew, its warmth grounding her.

Mrs. Hudson leaned back again, her gaze soft. “You’re strong, Addy. You’ll figure it out, one step at a time. You don’t have to have all the answers tonight.”

The rain continued its steady rhythm outside, but inside the kitchen, it felt still and safe. Addy wasn’t sure what the future held—for herself, for her parents, or for Adell Ferry—but for now, she focused on the meal in front of her and the steady presence of Mrs. Hudson.

4) My fourth and final prompt, as I could see no real improvement was being made:

This is good, but not quite right yet. Include the dinner scene with Delaney, Rooney, the other boarders. Take out the “living here felt like a compromise” section. Don’t have Mrs. Hudson call Addy “child.”

ChatGPT said (and you will note that my request to include the actual dinner conversation was ignored):

Addy’s spoon clinked against her bowl as she stirred the stew Mrs. Hudson had kept warm for her. The kitchen was quiet except for the soft patter of rain against the window. The scent of simmering vegetables and broth filled the room, blending with the faint smell of damp wool from her coat hung on the peg by the door.

Mrs. Hudson sat across the table, her teacup resting in her hands. The lamplight above cast long shadows on the walls, making the small kitchen feel both cozy and fragile. Addy took a bite, savoring the warmth that spread through her, but her thoughts drifted to Saturday night’s dinner with the other boarders.

“I’ve been thinking about what Mr. Delaney said,” Addy said, setting her spoon down. “About the bridges.”

Mrs. Hudson raised an eyebrow. “He does like to get people talking, doesn’t he?”

Addy gave a small smile. “He said, ‘It’s all about the bridges. If you keep an eye on the bridges, you’ll understand what’s coming.’ I don’t understand what he meant, but you seemed to.”

Mrs. Hudson leaned back in her chair, the corner of her mouth tugging into a knowing smile. “That’s because he’s right, in a way. Progress does like bridges. They’re not just crossings—they’re signs of change, of what’s to come.”

Addy frowned, her mind circling back to the conversation. She’d glanced around the table that night, hoping someone else would ask what he meant, but Lorna Rooney had simply nodded along, and Mr. Freeman had muttered something about not trusting anything that replaced a good ferry.

“Delaney was talking about the bridges upstream and downstream, wasn’t he?” Addy asked.

Mrs. Hudson nodded. “Those two bridges are like anchors. They connect towns, people, trade. But look at where Adell Ferry sits—right in the bend of the river. That bend forces the road to wind through here. If someone builds a straight road between those bridges, cutting across the land, it’ll bypass the bend entirely. No reason for anyone to stop here anymore.”

Addy felt a cold pit settle in her stomach. “But… that would leave the town isolated.”

Mrs. Hudson’s face softened. “That’s exactly it. Straight lines are the future. They’re faster, more efficient. And progress doesn’t care much for meandering rivers or the towns that grew up alongside them.”

Addy stared at the steam rising from her bowl, the thought sinking in. “But this town—these people—what happens to them?”

Mrs. Hudson shrugged. “Some will move on, others will stay and make do. It’s happened before, in other places. It’ll happen here.”

Addy thought about her parents, adrift on their boat somewhere downriver, their world as fluid as the water they traveled on. “You said something else Saturday. About the river itself changing.”

Mrs. Hudson’s eyes flickered. “The river’s not free anymore, not like it used to be. Dams and locks, reservoirs and levees—they’re taming it, making it work for us. It’s progress, Addy, for better or worse.”

Addy looked out the rain-speckled window toward the darkness where she knew the river flowed. “My parents are out there,” she murmured. “They sold everything for that boat, and my father… his cough is worse every time I see him. I don’t even know if I’ll see him again.”

Her voice cracked on the last word, and she bit her lip, trying to hold back tears. She hadn’t let herself cry on Saturday when they’d said goodbye. Not when her mother had clung to her and whispered, “My baby,” over and over. Not when her father’s watery eyes had said everything he couldn’t bring himself to.

But now, in the quiet warmth of the kitchen, the tears came.

Mrs. Hudson didn’t rush to speak. She let Addy cry, her gaze steady and patient. When Addy wiped her eyes, sniffling softly, Mrs. Hudson finally leaned forward.

“Your parents gave you this chance, Addy, because they believed in you. And they were right to. You’ve got grit. You’ll figure things out.”

“I don’t know,” Addy whispered. “The future feels so big and uncertain. Everything feels… fragile.”

Mrs. Hudson nodded slowly. “It is. But fragile things can still hold up if you take care of them. This town might struggle, but some folks will stay. And you’ll find your way too, no matter what happens.”

Addy looked up at her, searching for something to hold on to. “Do you really think so?”

Mrs. Hudson’s eyes were firm but kind. “I do. You’re stronger than you think.”

The rain drummed softly on the roof, a steady rhythm that matched the thrum of her thoughts. Addy picked up her spoon again, the warmth of the stew grounding her as she took another bite. For now, she let the safety of the moment anchor her, even as the river and the future waited just beyond.