Another ChatGPT writing exercise to share today. Quick recap: Back in late September or early October, I began using ChatGPT to generate rough drafts of scenes for my novel in response to writing exercise prompts for my writing group’s bi-weekly meetings.

I’ve posted the results several times so far, always giving 1) the writing group’s assignment/prompt, 2) my prompt/instructions to ChatGPT for writing the scene, and 3) 1-3 draft iterations of the scene returned by ChatGPT. As I’ve noted, the ChatGPT-written scenes are definitely rough drafts in need of a good dose of editing and revisions on my end. But the great thing about ChatGPT is that it feels like a writing buddy, a thought partner who can take somewhat inarticulate ideas and generate a draft (a bad draft, but a draft nonetheless) at lightning speed. Then you at least have a jumping-off point that’s way farther along than you would have gotten otherwise.

This time, though, I decided to try using ChatGPT from the other direction, using it to revise my own prose. My biggest issue with writing fiction is overwriting (self-diagnosed, of course; others may find that my biggest issues lie in other areas, lol). Not only do I always feel the need to cut wordiness and streamline the text, but I also feel that my entire voice becomes too florid, too over-the-top dramatic, even to the point of melodrama. In trying to capture emotion, I end up slaughtering the mood with descriptive overkill. Nothing subtle about it at all.

So in the scene that follows, I’ll give you my own writing first, followed by my instructions to ChatGPT to please tone it (and pare it) down, and then finally the ChatGPT-edited scene at the end. 

At first, on the day of writing group, when I read the scene aloud, I was really happy with the ChatGPT version. Gone was my junky overwritten description; in its place was a nice, succinct, smoothly flowing scene, with just the right balance of action, narrative description, and character introspection. But now, in looking back over my original scene, I kind of like some of the overwritten stuff.

This is instructive. Not only do I need to revise ChatGPT-generated rough drafts, but it also looks like I need to revise ChatGPT-edits of my own rough drafts, just to restore some of the “life” that, in my opinion, ChatGPT drains out.

See what you think. The first draft below is mine. Then is my prompt asking ChatGPT to edit/revise. Then comes the ChatGPT revision. Although it’s possible I’d prefer the ChatGPT-edited version again the next time I look it over, just as I did initially upon my first review, I’m fairly confident (at least right now) that I’ll prefer to continue revising the ChatGPT version to come up with something that’s more of a “happy medium” in the end, a Goldilocks “just right” version that tones down my embarrassing propensity to overwrite yet preserves some of the characters’ emotional substance and resonance (if that’s a word that fits?) that I’m also aiming at.

The prompt for my writing group was “a friend in need.” As with my other writing group exercises I’ve posted the past few months, I’ve tried to find a way to incorporate that prompt into a scene for my novel and then also to write my scene using ChatGPT, as a fun way of immersing myself in the technology in order to gain more practice with it (because as a college professor teaching courses in writing, content design/strategy, and digital society, I am learning all this new stuff on the fly and need to develop expertise like yesterday).

First, the usual disclaimer. 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 🙂 

My prompt to ChatGPT, asking for editing of my initial (overwritten) draft

Review and edit the following scene. My usual fault is over writing, especially using too much introspection, too much description, too much explaining, too much purple prose, for lack of a better word. Don’t over edit this scene but make any edits necessary to help it feel more literary and less like a trashy pulp novel. Here it is:

Jarrett tilted the brim of his hat back and squinted at the markers lined up in the dirt. The heat of the New Mexico sun beat down, flattening the shadows and leaving no room to hide from its relentless glare.

Taryn crouched nearby, her small hands smoothing out a scuff one of the crew had left behind and replacing the beige golf tee that served as her mark. She looked so small in the harsh light, her slight frame swallowed up in a loose button-down and jeans. Fragile, like she’d blow away with the next gust of desert wind. But ten weeks into the shoot, Jarrett knew better. Taryn was one of the strongest people he’d ever seen.

“You’re still a step off here,” she said, standing and brushing the dust from her hands. Her voice was cheerful, no hint of frustration despite his inability to get it right. “Try walking it back again.”

Jarrett sighed but did as she asked, pacing backward along the imaginary trail she’d set for him, counting his steps until he hit the black golf tee that marked his own starting point. “Why does it even matter? Nobody’s looking at my feet anyway.”

“It’s not about your feet,” Taryn said, walking back to stand beside him. “It’s about timing. If you’re too late, the camera misses the turn. If you’re too early, the moment falls flat. It’s like you’re dancing with the camera.”

Jarrett raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Dancing?”

“Kind of. Except less fun and more yelling.”

Almost on cue, as if to illustrate her words, the faint sound of Cameron’s voice cut across the set, sharp and rising. Jarrett glanced over his shoulder toward the director, who was pacing back and forth, phone pressed to his ear. Even at a distance, Jarrett could see his agitation, the way he flung his free hand through the air, swatting invisible flies. The crew did a pretty good job of ignoring him and continuing their work, but even from a distance, Jarrett could feel the tension crackling in the air.

Taryn didn’t appear to notice. She simply adjusted her stance and motioned for Jarrett to follow her. “Okay,” she said. “This time, count your steps. You’ll stop here on ‘You’ve got a lot of nerve,’ and turn at—”

“‘—But so do I,’” Jarrett finished for her. He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the weight of the sun and the lines he’d repeated so many times they’d lost meaning.

“Exactly.” Taryn beamed at him, and he felt that skittering sensation at the base of his sternum, like his heart had skipped a beat, which was becoming all too frequent lately whenever she smiled at him.

She moved in front of him, pointing to each mark in turn. “Let’s do it together. Walk with me, and I’ll count while you do your gestures and expression.”

Jarrett followed her lead, their feet crunching softly in the dry dirt. For a moment, it felt like they were two kids playing a game, her quick, light steps a rhythm he tried to match as they paced off his movements. He almost forgot why he’d been so frustrated.

He looked up as they walked, alerted as he hit the first mark by the imaginary sound of her arrival on horseback. Scowling, he stalked toward the camera, crossing his arms and tightening his jaw in outraged disbelief as he halted on the second mark.

“Now,” Taryn said, stopping with him. “Add the words.”

Jarrett conjured up a cynical smirk. “You’ve got a lot of nerve, Rose,” he drawled, injecting the line with all the cowboy grit he could muster.

Taryn tilted her head, lips pursed. “Maybe less John Wayne and more . . . just you. Mean it. Like what you told me about singing.”

Hearing his own advice turned around like that clicked. He went again, this time trying to feel the emotion and letting the scripted words roll out naturally like they were his own. Taryn’s face lit up with approval, and he felt that disconcerting flutter again.

“Beautiful,” Taryn said. “Now hit the next mark while I’m saying my lines, then grab my hand and pull me toward you the moment I’ve closed the gate.”

As they ran through it again, he was gratified to see all the various parts—the marks, the actions, the lines—begin falling into place, fitting together smoothly and naturally. It was like dancing, like finally knowing the steps well enough to transcend them and become lost in the movement.

It felt good.

Even better, it felt real.

Cameron’s voice broke through their rhythm, cutting through the set like a whip. “No, no, NO!” he shouted, and then, louder: “A friend in need is a pain in the ass!”

Jarrett froze, his boot skidding slightly in the dirt. Taryn looked up, her lips twitching. Their eyes met, and in an instant, they were both stifling laughter.

“I don’t think Cameron understands that saying,” Taryn murmured, a mischievous light in her eyes.

Jarrett snorted. “I don’t think Cameron understands a lot of things.”

They shared a conspiratorial grin as Cameron stormed off the set still arguing on the phone. Jarrett’s gaze drifted past him toward Taryn’s mother, Michelle, seated under a canopy at the edge of the set. Day after day she sat there, unmoving and expressionless, her face hidden behind oversized sunglasses, long blonde hair gleaming in the sunlight.

As Jarrett watched, Michelle raised the metal water bottle in her hand, the only movement she ever seemed to make, and took a casual sip. He couldn’t help but wonder—again—if it was spiked. He doubted there was much of anything hydrating in that bottle.

He huffed a short, humorless chuckle, grimacing at the turn his thoughts had taken. Took one to know one, apparently.

Taryn had apparently heard because he saw her look his way expectantly. 

“Is she okay?” he asked, nodding toward Michelle to avoid the scrutiny of those too-knowing silver eyes.

Taryn followed his gaze, her smile dimming slightly. “I don’t know. It’s complicated.”

Jarrett didn’t push. There was something in her voice—matter of fact but protective—that he was coming to understand. Taryn had a way of deflecting questions about her mom, like she’d built a wall around whatever was really going on.

He tried to think of a new topic, but Taryn got there first. She pointed discreetly toward the camera. “Look who’s back and pretending that whole phone debacle never happened,” she said.

Jarrett glanced over. Cameron was engaged in a quiet but serious-looking conversation with Tony, the assistant director. He must have skirted behind the building facades and trees to get there without returning the way he’d left.

“Ready to try it again?” Taryn asked, turning back to him.

Jarrett nodded, feeling the familiar tension rise. If Cameron was finished with his phone call, he’d probably be ready to shoot soon and complaining loudly to the entire set about how he’d gotten stuck with a hapless musician as his lead actor.

He hated how incompetent Cameron made him feel.

But as he and Taryn rehearsed, Jarrett felt the tension ease. Taryn’s calm, steady presence was soothing and allowed him to slow down his thoughts enough to get out of his own head. He found himself detaching, watching her more than the markers. The way her hair caught the light when she moved, the curve of her smile when she thought he’d nailed a line, the effortless way she made him feel like he wasn’t completely out of his depth. Taryn was the one person on this chaotic set who didn’t make him feel like he was failing. She didn’t have to help him with his acting—she could’ve left him to flounder—but she didn’t seem to mind. She made it seem easy, like she even enjoyed it.

“Jarrett.” Taryn’s voice pulled him back.

“Yeah?”

“You’re getting it,” she said, smiling.

Jarrett grinned back, knowing it was true. In the last run-though he’d hit all the marks, said all the lines right, and felt all his emotions in exactly the correct sequence.

“It’s like floating,” he said. “Like hitting the high note. Like great . . . “

Sex.

“Dancing,” he finished smoothly, hoping to erase the unspoken word he’d left hanging.

Thankfully, Taryn didn’t seem to notice. She gave his hands a quick squeeze, which then made him realize he hadn’t let go of hers when their scene ended. An urgent impulse to release them now seized him. But he resisted, for she would wonder why, might feel rejected and hurt. Instead, the moment lingered, and they stood in the center of the dusty corral, hands clasped, smiling at each other.

Ah, Taryn’s smile. He loved the way it transformed her already beautiful features into something even more exquisite, something magical and ethereal. There was no other way to describe it. When she smiled, she was radiant, and her strange, silver eyes shone with an otherworldly glow. Everyone liked Taryn; she had a talent for putting people at ease. Even the grumpiest members of the crew found it impossible to remain surly around her. Her cheerfulness was uplifting and made everyone want to be better, including him. No one could resist her light-filled smiles.

Lately, though, those smiles had started doing funny things to his heart.

He kept finding excuses to be around her. Although he was grateful for her help with his acting, what really mattered was simply being near her. Some mornings, when he was especially miserable about being stuck on the show, the prospect of seeing Taryn was the only thing that got him out of bed.

She fascinated him. The feathery whisper of her voice, the crisp, delicate line of her jaw. Her slender hands and wrists, encircled by their sliver-thin turquoise and silver bracelets. The auburn streaks that had developed in her long, dark hair under the New Mexico sun. Her skin had darkened, too, heightening the contrast of those silver eyes under the dark slash of her brows.

And then the discomfort settled in, like a stone in his boot.

She was just a kid. Or at least, that’s what he kept telling himself. But Taryn was everything he hadn’t known he needed: patient, kind, someone who truly saw him. He felt drawn to her despite his stern resolve to keep his distance. Her gentle inner light, the way she seemed to see beauty in everything awakened his protective instincts and made him feel things he wasn’t sure he should.

Things he didn’t want to feel. That might be wrong.

Things he didn’t want her to know.

They were still holding hands and gazing into each other’s eyes. Next week she would turn eighteen, one part of his mind rationalized, which another part of him immediately rejected with disgust. God, he was no better than Cameron!

Jarrett let go of her hands and glanced away, the realization settling heavy in his chest. What was he doing? Taryn was his “friend in need,” his lifeline in this mess of a job. Whatever this feeling was growing between them, it couldn’t last, shouldn’t even be acknowledged.

She was too young, their lives were too different, and once the cameras stopped rolling, she’d go her way, and he’d go his.

He could hardly bear the thought.

Just then, the assistant director called for quiet on the set, and everyone started getting ready for the next take. Taryn smiled encouragingly up at Jarrett as they walked back into position and surrendered themselves to quick last looks from hair, makeup, and wardrobe.

She didn’t know, Jarrett realized with sudden relief. It was a gift. He could still turn things around. He resolved to see her as the young girl she still was. They would be friends. She would continue helping him with his acting, and he would keep teaching her guitar.

“Lock it down,” called the AD. The extras took up their places behind them, lounging along the fence and beside the shed.

Jarrett glanced at Taryn. Her eyes were closed, and he knew she had gone to that place inside herself to find her character. He should be doing that, too. But the truth was, unlike Taryn, who bore virtually no resemblance to Rose, Jarrett was never anything other than himself. He wasn’t an actor; he was a musician. And no one expected anything more than that except Taryn. She seemed completely confident that he could become Sam.

Despite how much he disliked doing the show and despised Cameron, Jarrett nonetheless found himself looking forward to each day. No matter how foolish, he wanted to live up to Taryn’s earnest belief in him.

“Rolling!” called the AD.

“Speed!” called the camera operator and sound mixer in response. A crew member announced the scene and take, then clapped the slate in front of the camera. The AD called for quiet on the set, and an eerie silence descended as everyone waited for Cameron’s signal for action.

Time hung, suspended.

Just for today, Jarrett decided in that split second. Just for today, he would enjoy being around her with no guilt and no worries about the future. Today was enough. Because in the end, he thought philosophically, moving toward the first mark as he and Taryn had practiced, “today” was all any of us really had anyway.

ChatGPT said:

This scene has great potential, with strong character dynamics and an engaging setting. However, it does suffer from the issues you flagged: over-explaining, excess introspection, and a tendency to belabor descriptions or emotions. Below is a revised version with tighter prose, clearer focus, and a more literary tone, while retaining the heart of your story.

Jarrett tipped his hat back and squinted at the markers lined up in the dirt. The New Mexico sun beat down, flattening shadows and leaving no room to hide.

Taryn crouched nearby, smoothing out a scuff in the dust and resetting the beige golf tee that marked her spot. She looked small in the harsh light, her slight frame swallowed up in loose clothes. Fragile, Jarrett thought—but ten weeks into the shoot, he knew better. Taryn was steel wrapped in sunlight.

“You’re still a step off here,” she said, standing and brushing her hands. Her voice was cheerful, free of frustration despite his repeated missteps. “Try walking it back again.”

Jarrett sighed but did as she asked, pacing back along the imaginary trail, counting steps until he hit his mark. “Why does it even matter? Nobody’s looking at my feet.”

“It’s not about your feet,” Taryn said, joining him. “It’s about timing. If you’re too late, the camera misses the turn. Too early, and the moment falls flat. It’s like dancing with the camera.”

“Dancing?” He raised a skeptical eyebrow.

“Less fun, more yelling,” she replied, just as a sharp voice cut through the set.

Jarrett glanced toward the director, Cameron, pacing in the distance with a phone pressed to his ear. Even from here, his agitation was obvious—wild hand gestures swatting invisible flies. The crew worked around him, heads down, but the tension rippled across the dusty lot.

Taryn didn’t seem to notice. She adjusted her stance, motioning for Jarrett to follow. “Count your steps. Stop on ‘You’ve got a lot of nerve,’ and turn at—”

“‘But so do I,’” Jarrett finished. He rubbed his neck, the heat and endless repetition draining the life from the lines.

“Exactly.” Taryn smiled, and something skittered in his chest—a too-frequent sensation these days.

She walked ahead, pointing to each marker. “Let’s do it together. Walk with me.”

Jarrett followed, their footsteps crunching in the dirt. For a moment, it felt like a game, her light steps setting a rhythm he matched instinctively. The frustration ebbed.

He hit his first mark and scowled, imagining the camera’s frame. His lines came easier this time, the smirk more natural.

“You’ve got a lot of nerve, Rose,” he said, the drawl effortless now.

Taryn tilted her head. “Less John Wayne. Just you. Mean it.”

Hearing his own advice echoed back startled him. This time, he let the words roll out as if they were his own. Taryn’s face lit up, and there was that flutter again, maddeningly out of his control.

“Beautiful,” she said. “Now hit the next mark after I close the gate.”

The scene clicked, piece by piece, until it flowed naturally. It was like dancing, Jarrett thought. The steps melted away, leaving only the movement.

Cameron’s voice cracked through their rhythm. “No, no, NO!” He bellowed louder, “A friend in need is a pain in the ass!”

Jarrett froze, his boot skidding in the dirt. Taryn looked up, lips twitching. Their eyes met, and they stifled laughter.

“I don’t think Cameron understands that saying,” she murmured.

“Cameron doesn’t understand a lot of things,” Jarrett replied, his voice low.

Their shared grin lingered, but Jarrett’s gaze drifted to the edge of the set, where Michelle, Taryn’s mother, sat beneath a canopy. Day after day, she was a fixture, unmoving, her face hidden behind sunglasses, blonde hair gleaming in the sun.

Michelle raised a metal water bottle and took a slow sip. Jarrett’s mouth twisted. He doubted hydration was the goal.

“She okay?” he asked, nodding toward her.

Taryn followed his gaze, her smile dimming. “I don’t know. It’s complicated.”

Jarrett didn’t press. Taryn guarded her mother’s secrets like precious cargo, deflecting questions with quiet finality.

She gestured toward the camera. “Look who’s back, pretending nothing happened.”

Cameron had returned, deep in conversation with the assistant director. His earlier theatrics were wiped clean, as if erased by sheer will.

“Ready to go again?” Taryn asked, turning back to Jarrett.

He nodded, though tension coiled in his chest. Cameron would expect perfection, eager to remind everyone how unqualified the “musician” was for this role.

But as they rehearsed, the pressure receded. Taryn’s steady presence was an anchor. She didn’t just help—she made it feel easy, even enjoyable.

“Jarrett.”

“Yeah?”

“You’re getting it,” she said, smiling.

He was, he realized. “It’s like floating,” he said, wonder creeping into his voice. “Like hitting the high note. Like—”

Sex.

“Dancing,” he finished hastily.

Taryn didn’t seem to notice. She squeezed his hands briefly, grounding him, but didn’t pull away. The moment lingered, and Jarrett felt the weight of it settle, heavy and undeniable.

He stepped back, breaking the connection. Taryn’s eyes flickered with hurt, and guilt twisted in his chest.

Whatever this was between them, it couldn’t last. She was too young, their lives too different. When the cameras stopped, so would this.

The thought sat like a stone in his boot, impossible to shake.

My last thoughts

I do like the flow of the ChatGPT revision, as I said earlier. I like how streamlined it is. It doesn’t embarrass me the way my original rough draft’s overdone description does. But now I want some of the emotion and too-flowery description back. Figuring out the “good stuff” and leaving the majority behind will be a challenge.

But as William Faulkner said, you have to kill your darlings. Or murder them. Whatever he said. (Although, side note: Have you read William Faulkner? I don’t see much evidence of darling-killing in his dense prose. Imagine what it was like before the edits!)

If I ever finish my novel and publish it, you can decide for yourself how skillfully I wielded the scalpel.

UPDATE (So, not quite my last thoughts apparently 🙂 ) – It struck me this morning (the next day, after posting this yesterday) that my own ending was kind of upbeat and optimistic versus the ChatGPT rewrite that ended on a down note. I was going to add an update at the end of this post, but it got so long that I just decided to give space to it in a post of its own. Check out my new thoughts in the post dated January 31, 2025.