The arrival of generative AI is bringing lots of changes to my job as a college professor. I teach some humanities and social science courses (film and media studies, political science, digital society, etc.), but I also teach quite a few courses that are centered around writing and editing (for example, composition, technical communication, presentations, writing for digital media, digital storytelling).
I can envision positive uses for generative AI in all of them. Students want to learn how to use this tool well, and more and more I have come to believe that my job as a teacher is to help them do that. Even as a writing teacher, I am bringing generative AI practice into the classroom as much as possible.
The future of writing instruction, in fact, will likely become far more about helping students develop discernment (to know whether a text is “good” in terms of aesthetics, form, content, and functionality) and advanced editing skills (the reshaping, molding, enhancing, and crafting of a text using multiple inputs) than it will be about having them generate words on the page in the first place. Even before ChatGPT, most writing teachers saw generation of text as merely the starting point, the rough draft. Sadly, students sometimes think they’re done at the rough draft stage, like they’ve exhausted the subject, and they find it extremely difficult to “revise” in any significant ways. Our job as teachers is to help them push past that and tackle the hard work of seriously redeveloping the draft into something more substantial, more refined (down to the essentials), more audience focused, more aligned with its purpose and intended function.
The best way for me to learn almost anything is to dive right in, get messy, put in lots of practice hours. And that’s what I’m doing with generative AI. Only by using it myself can I understand what the tool can and can’t do.
Which brings me to my writing group exercises. If you follow my blog, you already know that my writing group does short exercises to share each time we meet. We take turns coming up with prompts, and then all of us do our own responses to share when we get together. Several weeks ago as I was using ChatGPT to do some research for an academic project on a Friday afternoon, I got the idea to try prompting the generative AI to produce my writing group response. I’ve done it a couple more times since then and have been impressed with the results so far. Just for fun, in the immediate future anyway, I’m going to try using ChatGPT not only to craft my writing group responses but also to respond to each prompt in a way that utilizes the serendipity of “fate” (in the form of that prompt) to move my novel forward.
Logically, this is where I would tell you about my novel. But my novel is difficult to explain, far too complicated and confusing. Hopefully once it’s finished I can just as ChatGPT to produce a nice logline for me 🙂 I know my characters and the overall structure, but the novel has three main story arcs that, while thematically related, are quite separated from each other temporally and only minimally connected by geography and certain specific plot incidents. Suffice it to say that much of the action is set in the fictional Ohio River town of Adell Ferry. Part of the story happens in the 1930s, part of it happens in the early/mid-1970s, and part of it happens today.
“Today” being somewhat fluid and indeterminate, as I started writing this novel literally almost thirty years ago, LOL. I’ve had to change out the technology a lot since I started (e.g., pay phones?) and long ago realized I’d better try to deemphasize the specifics of anything tech related as much as possible to avoid dating it too terribly.
Today’s writing group exercise is aimed at the 1930s section of the novel. I hope it’s not overkill, but I thought I’d show you all the various drafts (three in all) that ChatGPT came up with. Each draft has good things, but I liked the last one best. Probably what I’ll do is keep it as the foundation and then pull out additional items that I liked from the other drafts to insert throughout the text wherever they seem to fit.
Also, you may note that ChatGPT ignored some of the instructions I gave it, maybe because it couldn’t easily find any text out there online to scrape, so I’ll need to write up those parts myself if I want them in there. I’m showing all three drafts so you can also see the good parts as well as the clichés.
But the main thing I want to emphasize is that the final ChatGPT draft—which, again, is my favorite of the three—will not be MY final draft. My own final draft will incorporate not only bits of the other two ChatGPT attempts but also my own original text.
So here it is. First, of course, 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. I’ve included little markers to indicate my prompts and ChatGPT’s responses.
Oh wait, I almost forgot! The prompt for this week’s writing group exercise was “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.”
1) My initial prompt:
Write a scene for a novel.
A big part of the scene is background information, woven together with Addy walking along a lightly wooded area on the bank of the Ohio River in summer 1936. Addy’s father became sick with a cough and progressive weakness and wasting. The farm became too much for him, plus the Depression is making farming difficult. He had always wanted adventure but got married, had Addy, took over his father’s farm. But now that he’s so sick, and it’s the Depression (it is summer of 1936), he wants adventure at last. Addy’s family is living on a shantyboat, has been for a couple of years. They stay up and down the Ohio River in summer, then move south along the Mississippi during winter. Addy’s schooling has been spotty, as a result.
Write that first background scene framed by Addy, age 16, walking along the riverbank just south of a small town on the Ohio side of the Ohio River called Adell Ferry. She has been feeding their chickens on the riverbank. Her father picked it because its name was so similar to Addy’s (full name Adele). He didn’t realize the town’s name was pronounced ADD-uhl, like someone’s brains were “addled.” It’s a nice town and Addy has met some girls at the drugstore, where they were sitting at the soda fountain counter giggling over movie star magazines. Addy would like to stay and do her senior year of high school here.
Some background to show in flashback entries to this scene:
Many people who live on shantyboats are shifty, criminal. They steal. Addy’s father has always taken pains to introduce himself to the people whose homes are near where the family docks, to impress upon them that he and his family are upright citizens fallen on hard times and ill health.
Addy’s family keeps chickens. They are in cages on the shantyboat during the night but forage on the riverbank during the day
Include details of river life and shantyboat living in particular. Also mention the attitudes of townspeople toward shantyboat dwellers. Mention that the strip of land near the river was often considered “extra” for the farmers because they knew shantyboat people would steal it. Almost like an agreed upon deal that shantyboat people would harvest crops near the water.
Addy has been spending lots of time at the library in town. She can’t get a library card (no address) but the librarian has been kind. Addy stays in the library for hours several days a week. She reads in a small room at the back of the building filled with local reference materials. Small room but high ceilings and lots of light. High ceilings help with the heat. And the building is made of local limestone, so it retains the nighttime cool temperatures inside throughout the morning.
Addy has been reading A Tale of Two Cities. The librarian told her a secret place in the quiet, small local references room where she can hide the book and then pick it up again the next day.
Highlight Addy’s thoughts throughout this chapter scene about the first line in that novel. “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.” In some ways, she realizes, this is true of her own life right now. Her father is happy but dying. Their family (father, mother, her) are closer than ever, but they are alone, cut off from all their relatives. With the exception of some kind people like the librarian, they are also viewed with suspicion and dislike because they are river rats. Addy has met many, many people and seen many wondrous things in the adventure of the last few years living on the Ohio and Mississippi Rivers, but she has no friends and is stuck on the water.
ChatGPT said:
Addy knelt in the shade of a thick-limbed maple, crumbling a handful of breadcrumbs between her fingers, scattering the crumbs for the chickens scratching and pecking at the brush along the riverbank. Their soft clucking, punctuated by the occasional squawk of a hungry hen, floated on the breeze, mingling with the lazy lap of the Ohio River. Summer hung in the air, thick and hot, and Addy could feel the damp warmth clinging to her as she straightened up, brushing dirt from her dress.
Adell Ferry, the name of the small town nearby, had amused her father. “Almost your name,” he’d said, his voice thin but bright with mischief as he’d explained it. “Adele and Adell—seems like it was meant for us.” Addy smiled faintly, though the irony was bittersweet. Her father hadn’t known the locals said it like “addled,” as if their minds had gone soft. She’d overheard the kids in town laughing at her family, calling them “river rats,” and it stung. Still, her father had insisted on pulling up their shantyboat here, calling it a good place to rest. A nice town with good people, he’d said. And sometimes, Addy believed him.
For the past few days, she’d taken to wandering up here on her own, after chores, after feeding the chickens. The river stretched out in both directions, as familiar to her as the scratchy wool blanket she’d had since she was a little girl. It was her home—at least, it had been for a while now. They’d been living on the water since her father took ill. A cough, a stubborn one, that had started slow but grown worse, until every breath sounded like it might tear him apart. Farming became too much for him, and when they couldn’t keep up, he sold the land. Then they built the shantyboat, and here they were, drifting with the seasons and the rivers.
Up and down the Ohio in the summer, south along the Mississippi in the winter. That was their pattern. Their chickens—her father’s pride, and, for her mother, a lifeline—were tethered to their own small cages each night, and she’d gotten used to the river mud and stray feathers that marked her days. It wasn’t the life she imagined, but she had seen things in these years on the river—sunsets that set the sky afire, islands where no one lived but deer and wild foxes, towns like Adell Ferry where life stopped every evening for pie and talk at the soda fountain.
Adell Ferry was quaint, full of friendly faces and busybodies, both of whom turned suspicious whenever a shantyboat came near. People like her father did their best to ease folks’ fears—he’d make a point to introduce himself wherever they moored, showing the neighbors they meant no harm. Most folks had grown up with shantyboats coming and going, the river a lifeline in hard times, though the Depression made it feel more crowded, the edges of the riverbanks lined with makeshift homes.
Despite her father’s coughing fits, despite her mother’s furrowed brows, this little town had something to offer Addy that felt close to hope: school. She’d gone inside the local high school once when she stopped by the library, imagining herself slipping into one of those desks, a real senior with real classes. The idea of finishing high school was thrilling, almost as thrilling as her afternoons in the limestone library, the building that felt cool and quiet and steady, like a fortress against the summer heat.
The library had become her safe haven, especially the tiny room at the back where the local history books were kept. The librarian, a kind woman with a soft voice and sharp eyes, knew Addy couldn’t check out books without an address, but she didn’t seem to mind when Addy lingered for hours, pouring over any book she could find. She was deep into A Tale of Two Cities now, keeping her place tucked away in a hidden nook the librarian had showed her.
“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times,” Addy murmured as she walked along the river’s edge, the opening line playing over in her mind. She’d read it dozens of times, and each time it felt heavier, deeper. It made sense to her. Her life felt split, just like that book. On one hand, she had her family, closer than they’d ever been, bonded by the water and their strange existence on a drifting house. On the other, she was alone, cut off from a future that seemed to drift farther out of reach with each passing mile down the river.
She thought of the girls she’d met at the soda fountain, crowded around a glossy magazine, giggling over some movie star or other, looking up only to smile politely at her. They were nice enough but clearly bewildered by her life, this “river rat” who knew the water better than the roads, whose family carried everything they owned on a shantyboat tethered to the land with nothing but hopes and a few chickens.
The river could feel like a prison sometimes, its endless roll hemming her in, keeping her separate from the ordinary lives of others. But her father—he was happy here, that was plain enough. She could see it in his face, in the way he seemed lighter somehow, despite the illness eating away at him. It was a chance at the adventure he’d never had, the one he’d traded away to raise a family and work the land. Now that life was nearly gone, he was finally doing what he’d always dreamed of, floating free and wild on the river.
Her family had seen so many wonders, but Addy wanted something else now. Not the endless journey, not the constant moving, but a place to settle, a chance to stay in one town long enough to make a friend, to finish high school, to know what it felt like to belong.
2) I said:
Change the voice slightly. Don’t use words like “quaint.” Don’t use cliches to describe the small towns. Add in more details of Addy’s current activity. Talk about the sun on her face, the breeze off the wide, brown river. Talk about her favorite reddish brown chicken and its curious personality. Maybe add a conversational exchange with her mother about a missing chicken and the fact that Addy will be walking into town to the library soon.
ChatGPT said:
Addy squinted against the sun, shading her eyes with one hand as she watched the chickens scramble along the bank, their feathers ruffled up against the breeze blowing off the wide, brown river. The sunlight poured down, hot and steady, soaking into her skin, and she let herself feel it, standing there on the river’s edge, just south of the town with the funny name. Adell Ferry—close to her own, almost like her father had meant for them to end up here. Except he hadn’t known the locals pronounced it “Add-uhl,” like their brains were addled. The first time she’d heard it, Addy had nearly laughed, imagining her name as something strange and broken, the kind of word a mother might say with a frown.
But her father had wanted to stay, and she supposed she couldn’t blame him. There was something gentle here, in the way the river curved slowly past, in the sounds of the breeze and distant bird calls, in the low hum of insects that filled up the gaps between her thoughts.
She tossed another handful of crumbs onto the ground, watching her favorite hen—reddish brown with bright, alert eyes—pecking her way around the other chickens, strutting as if she owned the place. “You think you’re special, don’t you, Rosie?” Addy murmured, watching the hen dart forward, always a step quicker, always curious enough to dig under leaves and branches the other hens ignored. Rosie was a quick one, too, always seeming to sense when Addy was near and ready to steal scraps right from her hand. Addy could spend half an hour watching her scratch and flutter, her way of making a whole event out of a little crumb.
“Addy!” Her mother’s voice floated from the shantyboat a few yards off. It was patched with old boards, speckled with faded paint, the only home they’d known these last few years. “Addy, have you seen Nellie?”
Addy looked around, scanning the edge of the riverbank. “Probably hiding in the trees again, Ma. I’ll find her before I head into town.”
“Well, don’t leave without her! Can’t afford to lose another hen to a hawk.”
Addy gave a quick nod, making a mental note to keep her eyes open. They’d lost one chicken already the previous month, and with each one that went missing, her mother’s expression grew darker, her lips pressed thin. It was too easy to lose things when you lived on the water, where every day meant tying and untying, drifting away or finding your footing all over again. It seemed like every part of their lives was precarious, from the chickens to the makeshift garden her mother kept in old crates on deck.
With a final handful of crumbs scattered for Rosie and the others, Addy wiped her hands on her dress and took in the scene around her. The air was thick with summer warmth, the river’s scent—a mix of wet earth and waterlogged wood—seeming to rise up to meet her. Somewhere in the trees, cicadas droned on in waves, their sound mixing with the creak of the boat shifting in the breeze.
Today, she’d walk the half-mile stretch to town for a couple hours at the library. The thought made her smile a little. The librarian never asked too many questions about her, though she’d kindly offered a chair in the quiet, high-ceilinged room at the back, and even a place to tuck away her book, a thick, worn copy of A Tale of Two Cities. Addy had memorized that first line, reading it over and over. It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.
Addy thought about that line a lot as she walked along the river, her thoughts filled with the strange truth of it. Here was her family, closer than they’d ever been. But they were alone, cut off from everyone they’d known before the river. Her father, with his rough cough and the tired lines carved into his face, seemed almost lighter here, as if the water had given him some of his youth back. He’d wanted to drift, always talked about floating on the river like Huck Finn, even though he’d tied himself to a farm and a family instead. Now, even sick as he was, he seemed happy, looking out from their boat with something close to pride.
Addy wasn’t sure what she wanted. She’d met a few girls in town, their laughter bright as they huddled around a magazine at the soda fountain, whispering about movie stars and what dress they’d wear to the homecoming dance. She’d felt like an outsider, watching them, but they’d smiled, and a few of them had even waved her over to sit with them. Sitting at that counter, with the clang of dishes and the smell of syrup and coffee, Addy had felt an ache she couldn’t quite put words to.
Maybe, she thought, brushing her hair back as the wind picked up, it was the ache of wanting more than just a good view of the water, or the chance to see another new town when winter came and they headed south again. She wanted a place she could be known, maybe even finish her last year of high school. But those were big dreams, dreams that felt weightless in the heat of the afternoon. For now, she’d go find Nellie, then set her sights on the cool, quiet library waiting up the road.
3) I said:
This is great. keep everything pretty much the same, but add in a bit more reflection on the best of times and the worst of times tension and ambivalence in Addy’s life. Emphasize the fact that she’ll turn 17 in a few weeks. She’s starting to think about her own future and how that will take her away from her parents and then they’ll be alone and she’ll be alone. But it can’t be helped. She has to find her place in the world, and it for sure isn’t living on the river like a hobo
ChatGPT said:
Addy squinted against the sun, shading her eyes with one hand as she watched the chickens scramble along the bank, their feathers ruffling up against the warm breeze rolling off the wide, brown river. She straightened up, feeling the sun settle heavy on her shoulders, its heat sinking into her skin as she dusted breadcrumbs off her fingers. She let herself stand still for a moment, breathing in the smell of river mud and sun-dried grasses.
In a few weeks, she’d be seventeen. The thought felt strange, stretching through her like an itch she couldn’t quite scratch. Seventeen should mean something, didn’t it? But here she was, floating from town to town on the water, her whole life tied to a makeshift boat and the banks of the Ohio River. Turning seventeen on a shantyboat wasn’t exactly what she’d imagined for herself.
Across the bank, Rosie, her favorite hen, strutted with her usual cocky little bounce, pecking the dirt with quick, sharp motions, already snatching up crumbs before the other hens even noticed. Rosie was a bossy, curious little thing. She was bold enough to eat straight from Addy’s hand, smart enough to figure out where the food was hidden, and a good bit faster than the rest of the flock. Addy grinned, watching her scratch around, tilting her head up at Addy as if expecting to be admired.
“Addy!” Her mother’s voice floated from the shantyboat, which sat bobbing gently a few yards off. Addy glanced over, taking in its patched boards and weather-worn sides, the battered little home her father had patched together for them, now their lifeline and their whole world.
“Yeah, Ma?” Addy called back.
“Have you seen Nellie? I don’t see her with the others.”
Addy scanned the riverbank, looking for any sign of the little gray hen. “She’s probably hiding in the trees again. I’ll find her before I go into town,” she called, hoping that would soothe her mother’s worry.
“Well, don’t leave without her! We can’t afford to lose another to a hawk.”
“I know, Ma,” Addy replied, though she felt a pang of frustration under her words. They’d lost a hen already, and she knew how much each loss stung her mother. But to Addy, it felt like just one more reminder of how fragile everything was. It seemed like they were always losing things—hens, bits of the boat, pieces of themselves—as if the river claimed a toll just for letting them stay.
With a final handful of crumbs tossed for Rosie and the others, Addy brushed her hands off on her skirt and took in the scene around her. The air was thick with summer heat, the river’s scent—a mix of wet soil and waterlogged wood—settling over her like a fog. Somewhere in the trees, cicadas buzzed in waves, their droning chorus filling the air, mixing with the low groan of their boat shifting with the current.
She knew she’d be heading to the library soon. There was something steady and cool in that limestone building, with its thick walls and high ceilings that trapped the morning’s chill. She loved the little reading room the librarian had shown her, the one filled with dusty history books, and that spot behind the shelf where she hid her novel. She was halfway through A Tale of Two Cities, reading it in stolen moments, pages at a time. It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. That line had caught her right away, and the more she read, the more it seemed to dig into her.
Best of times, worst of times—that was her life all right, all those opposites tangled up and pulling at her. Here she was, with her family closer than ever, practically living on top of one another, bound by sickness and hard times, by the river and the towns that watched them with wary eyes. She loved them, and they loved her—she knew that as sure as anything. And yet, in less than a month, she’d be seventeen, and she felt something hard and restless growing inside her, something that made her stomach twist when she thought about staying on this shantyboat forever.
Her father seemed happy enough here, as though this life was the adventure he’d never quite gotten to have. She saw it sometimes in the way he looked out over the water, coughing but content, with that dreamy look of his, as if he were floating beyond the river itself. Her mother…well, Addy could tell her mother wasn’t thrilled about the river life. But she’d stayed for him, for all of them, and made the shantyboat into some kind of home.
Addy loved her parents, but she couldn’t imagine herself here a year from now, or even six months. She didn’t want to turn seventeen with her whole future drifting in circles on the river, living like a hobo, mooring near towns that kept their distance or looked down on her. She wanted a place that was hers, a chance to finish school, to make something of herself that was more than just the “river rat” everyone saw.
The ache of it hit her hard sometimes, especially after a day like yesterday, sitting at the soda fountain with the girls in town. They’d smiled, welcomed her, even laughed at some of her jokes, but she could feel it—the strangeness in the way they watched her, their half-hidden glances at her patched clothes, her river-weathered hands. They’d been polite, but they didn’t know her. They’d never understand what it was like to sleep on a floating floor, to wake up wondering if the river might carry you away one night if you didn’t tie your rope tight enough.
She couldn’t be sure where she belonged, but she was starting to know for certain where she didn’t. And in the quiet hours when she sat reading, letting herself get lost in A Tale of Two Cities, she felt the pull of it even stronger. She knew the risk—leaving her parents behind, knowing they’d be alone, just the two of them and the chickens, drifting through the seasons without her. And she’d be alone, too, starting out somewhere new without her family to fall back on. It wasn’t a thought that sat easy in her chest.
But it couldn’t be helped. She had to find her place in the world, and it wasn’t on the river. That was just the way of things, she thought, glancing down at Rosie pecking her way through the underbrush. Every creature eventually left the nest—or, in her case, the shantyboat—and when her time came, she’d go, because that was what seventeen meant. She’d find Nellie soon, get herself into town, and let the pages of her book carry her to some other life, just for a little while.
A FINAL NOTE: I got tears in my eyes when I read this last paragraph at writing group. ChatGPT came up with the “leaving the nest” connection with the chickens, and I loved it. Plus the phrasing of that whole sentence, including “when her time came, she’d go, because that was what seventeen meant.” I mean, just beautiful, right?
Katherine Wikoff 