Well, I’m starting to see ChatGPT’s tics and tells more clearly. On the plus side, this tool works well as a means of
- casting a wide research net
- quickly executing a rough draft
- providing “feedback” and suggestions for oneself on a rough draft
- showing (and “forcing”) connections between random ideas
- editing documents for length
- editing documents for style
Beyond that, though, generative AI is definitely limited. There’s a reason why the early ChatGPT-written student papers stuck out so baldly (and badly 🙂 ). ChatGPT can’t write worth a damn beyond its specific and rather limited skillset. It does a poor job of following instructions, and when it takes the initiative and offers up text unrequested by the prompt, you need to approach those results with skepticism.
On the other hand, as Karen and I agreed on Saturday (when we were the only two people able to make it to our writing group meeting), first drafts are always crummy anyway, and ChatGPT at least returns a crummy first draft with lightning speed. After you spend a fair amount of time creating a good prompt, that is.
So for this week’s meeting, I decided to keep going with my experiment in having ChatGPT write first drafts for the section of my novel I’m currently working on. And this week, the “machinery” of the technology’s “works” was on full display, a disenchantment akin to a child’s sighting of the wires underpinning a magician’s trick.
For example, as in other outings, ChatGPT ignored quite a few of my instructions, which was frustrating because I went to a certain amount of trouble of coming up with them in the first place. Ignoring instructions seems to be a common flaw in the tool, so you can’t just set things up and think you’re done. You need to be “on” enough, and know enough, to catch that the result returned is not all it should have been.
Similarly, stylistically, ChatGPT leaned far too heavily on sentimentality, similies, participial phrases, and adverbs in general. This tendancy to drift into florid prose, in fact, is one of the “tics” I referred to earlier.
In my second exercise draft, ChatGPT also completely screwed up the timeline of the Christmas gathering, having one person enjoying her gift before she even received it and having another person conversing with the other guests around the tree before he even came into the house out of the snowstorm!
One last, little thing that will continue to nag at me until I fix it is ChatGPT’s mention of the “buttery scent” of freshly popped corn that Addy and Mrs. Hudson are stringing on thread to create a garland. “Buttery” corn on a garland? I tried to fix it by telling ChatGPT that the popcorn was dry, but ChatGPT came back with “the smell of dry popcorn” in the next draft, lol, so in revising, I need to remember to switch it to something like “the smell of freshly popped corn.” Maybe plain, freshly popped corn does have a “buttery scent,” but all I could picture was greasy fingers making a slimy mess of my simple, traditional strand of popcorn and cranberries.
One observation, neither complaint nor praise: ChatGPT added an interesting “volunteer” item beyond the scope of what I’d asked for, in the form of affixing a tag/heading that read, “Christmas Gathering,” at the top of my third (and final) exercise draft.
On the positive side, I continue to delight in little surprises and moments of serendipity in the text that ChatGPT returns:
- Mrs. Hudson worrying about Mr. Freeman and wanting to “box his ears” (a phrase I recognized as 1930s appropriate and might not have thought of myself) for his rufusing her offer of coffee in conjunction with his stubborn insistence on shoveling snow
- Mr. Freeman’s “usual armchair” (a nice touch suggesting backstory and context)
- Lorna Rooney’s “quick, sharp fingers” (she’s a bank teller)
- Mr. Delaney treating Mrs. Hudson like a waitress (“Coffee, Myrna?”)
- Lorna’s clever quips of “advice” in the notebook she gives Addy (reminding me a bit of the old Burma-Shave road signs of that same era)
So, yes, I’m having a lot of fun with this.
In an interesting aside, my freshman composition students have done some exploratory work with ChatGPT this past semester, and while the tool definitely helped them find unusual, interesting topics and broadened their research, they have also discovered for themselves that ChatGPT is not that helpful for writing papers. That is, ChatGPT sets essays up to move along a rigid, mundane path and student writers end up feeling “trapped” in drafts they don’t have the skills to escape. It was exciting for me as a teacher to see that students could recognize how bad the ChatGPT drafts were and then conclude on their own that the tool might be more of a hindrance than a benefit, in that application anyway.
But all of that is a post for another day. For now, I just want to share my most recent writing exercise and the rough drafts generated by ChatGPT.
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 🙂
From my email to my writing group about our prompt for this week’s exercise:
I’m supposed to send out our next exercise, so here it is. I couldn’t decide on what prompt to use. I wanted to get fancy, do something like the Ursula Le Guin exercises we did for a while, but my week has been too hectic to get a handle on that. So, I came up with three potential “word” starters that seemed related to the season and couldn’t decide on just one, so here are all three. Pick just one, use two, or mash up all three in there together. Your choice😀
- Fizzy sparkle
- Redolence
- White elephant
My initial prompt to ChatGPT
This next scene continues the story of Addy. It is approaching Christmas in December 1936. The boarders have gathered around the Christmas tree on the Sunday evening before Christmas (which will be the upcoming Friday, December 25). They are having a white elephant gift exchange.
Earlier that day Mrs. Hudson popped some corn, and she and Addy sat at the kitchen table, stringing garlands of fluffy white popcorn and deep red cranberries, while they talked about life. Addy talks about her new friend, Hazel. Show a brief flashback of that earlier conversation. It is still snowing. It began snowing yesterday and has not let up. There are several inches of snow on the ground. Mr. Freeman was kind enough to shovel the front walks so people could get out to church. Addy worries because he is old, but Mrs. Hudson scoffs at that, saying Mr. Freeman is still strong as an ox and could probably still carry a load of bricks the same as any of the younger men on a job. Still, Addy notices a look of worry briefly trouble her features before she clearly and deliberately appears to shrug away the though with another nearly imperceptible flicker of expression.
Hazel gave Addy a Mason jar, with a festive plaid ribbon tied around the neck, filled with peanut butter fudge. Addy is knitting Hazel a scarf of very fine, soft yarn, with the tiniest needles she’s ever seen. Mrs. Hudson is quite the expert knitter, with a collection of yarn, needles, and a fancy, scientific looking wheel that helps you match up your yarn with the perfect gauge knitting needles. The outer rim of the wheel has holes where you stick your knitting needle in, and then you spin the bar that’s anchored with a brass eyelet at the center of the circle to see what type of yarn to use. The scarf Addy is knitting is very fine, and she is excited to give it to Hazel. Hazel is the first true friend Addy has made.
There is also a boy that Addy has a crush on. She told Mrs. Hudson while they were stringing garlands that he walked her to her locker after their class together and waited for her while she got her coat, then walked with her to the front door, where they parted ways. Mrs. Hudson told Addy she admired Addy for finishing high school, when so many children leave school after elementary school. “A high school diploma is your ticket to a brighter future, Addy,” she told her. Addy plans to give Hazel the scarf at school on Wednesday, their last day before the Christmas break. She hopes she can finish it in time.
Segueing to the gathering of boarders around the tree that evening, Addy is knitting while participating in the exchange. She and Mrs. Hudson baked Christmas cookies and gingerbread the day before, after Addy got home from work at the men’s clothing store. Mr. Delaney arrives, shaking off the snow from his coat in the entrance hall, jovially complaining about the snow and the road conditions. Addy thinks about how Mrs. Hudson will shortly return, after hanging up his things, to mop up the wet floor from the melting snow he has tracked in, and how she (Addy) would have entered through the back door to save Mrs. Hudson the trouble of cleaning up her mess. She has noticed his lack of consideration before, but no one else seems to notice or mind, including Mrs. Hudson.
Lots of inconsequential but cheerful conversation ensues as the boarders gather around the tree, listening to the radio playing quietly in the background. They eat cookies, drink cocoa and coffee (which Mrs. Hudson makes for Mr. Delaney, at his request), and exchange their white elephant gifts. Each person has a small gift for all the other boarders, and each gift is appropriate for the recipient, either as a gag or in a small, thoughtful way. Keep in mind each person’s job and personality. Lorna is a bank teller and is dedicated to her job, a team spirit kind of person. She is fashionable, has a sharp tongue, likes to suck on lemon drops. Mr. Freeman lost his wife to influenza several years ago, but he has a group of buddies, also retired from the construction trades, that he meets regularly for an evening of cards and or an afternoon of front porch conversations. Mrs. Hudson likes to knit, and she makes things for an orphanage in Huntington, West Virginia. Mr. Delaney is handsome, relatively young (early thirties), a travelling salesman, selling ladies hosiery to department stores. He is a smooth-talking flirt, a bit of a know-it-all. He has dates with an ever-changing cast of ladies in town, although some women appear to be regulars, and Addy suspects he has similar arrangements in every city he travels to. She is slightly disgusted by him, even as she is fascinated and also finds herself drawn in by his charm.
After the gift giving is over, Addy tells the others she must head upstairs to bed, for tomorrow is a school day. Before she goes, Mrs. Hudson hands her an envelope. It is addressed to her, Mrs. Hudson, and has already been opened, but inside is another envelope, addressed to Addy. It is a Christmas card from her parents, telling her in a very cheerful tone about their adventures in Mississippi and how they are looking forward to pecan pie on Christmas Eve at their favorite diner. Addy remembers that pie; her mouth waters. Then Mrs. Hudson gives Addy a box, that turns out to be filled with pecans so that Addy can enjoy a taste of Christmas with them. Mrs. Hudson tells her she will bake them into a pie for Christmas Day. Addy knows she is about to cry, so she bids everyone a hasty good night and climbs the three flights of stairs to her room. Only after she is in bed and drifting off to sleep does it occur to her to wonder why her Christmas card was enclosed inside an envelope to Mrs. Hudson.
ChatGPT said:
The snow still fell, thick and steady, as Addy and Mrs. Hudson sat at the kitchen table Sunday afternoon, stringing garlands of popcorn and cranberries. The warm, buttery scent of freshly popped corn lingered in the air, mingling with the earthy tang of cranberries. Addy’s fingers worked carefully, pushing the needle through the soft popcorn and the firm, glossy berries, enjoying the rhythmic task.
“It looks beautiful,” Mrs. Hudson said, her gaze flicking between the garland in Addy’s hands and the growing pile on the table. “Hazel will love that scarf you’re making. It’s delicate work, but you’re doing a fine job.”
Addy beamed. “I hope she likes it. She gave me fudge, you know—a whole Mason jar full.”
“With a ribbon on top, no less,” Mrs. Hudson added, her tone amused. “That girl has a good heart.”
“She does,” Addy said, a warmth spreading through her chest. “She’s the first real friend I’ve had.”
Mrs. Hudson paused for a moment, as though weighing her words. “Good friends don’t come along every day. Hold on to that.”
They worked in companionable silence for a while, the snow outside casting a soft glow through the frosted window. Then Addy hesitated, biting her lip before speaking again. “There’s… a boy.”
Mrs. Hudson’s eyes twinkled. “I thought there might be. Tell me about him.”
Addy ducked her head, cheeks flushing. “His name’s Billy. He walked me to my locker after class on Friday. Then he waited while I got my coat and walked me to the door.”
Mrs. Hudson smiled knowingly. “He sounds like a gentleman. And you sound like a girl who’s juggling school, work, and knitting but still finds time to notice the good ones. That’s no small thing, Addy.”
Later that evening, the parlor hummed with the chatter and laughter of the boarders, gathered around the Christmas tree for the white elephant exchange. The radio played softly in the background, a cheerful medley of carols.
Addy sat on the rug near the fire, her knitting needles clicking steadily as she worked on Hazel’s scarf. Lorna Rooney lounged in an armchair, idly twirling a lemon drop wrapper between her fingers, while Mr. Freeman sat nearby, regaling Mrs. Hudson with a story about a card game he’d played with his old construction buddies.
The front door opened with a gust of cold air and a flurry of snow, and Mr. Delaney strode in, stamping his boots. “Would you look at that snow? It’s like the road’s trying to swallow my car whole!” He shook off his coat, sending droplets of water onto the tiled entryway.
Addy glanced up from her knitting, thinking how Mrs. Hudson would soon be back with a mop to clean up the mess. She would never say a word about it, but Addy noticed. She’d come in through the back door herself earlier to avoid just this sort of trouble.
“Oh, Delaney,” Mrs. Hudson called from her perch by the fire, “come have a seat before you freeze. I’ll get you some coffee.”
Addy suppressed a sigh. Delaney’s charm never failed to get him exactly what he wanted.
The gift exchange was a merry affair. Lorna received a tin of lemon drops from Mr. Freeman, who chuckled as she held it aloft like a trophy. Addy gave Mr. Delaney a new tie—a bright red one, as gaudy as his personality—and received a small notebook from Lorna, the cover embossed with gold letters that read, For All Your Brilliant Ideas. When Addy opened it, she found that every other page had been pre-filled with good-natured advice, like Never trust a man who talks faster than he walks.
As the laughter died down and the last cookie crumbs were brushed from laps, Addy stood and stretched. “I’d better get to bed. School tomorrow.”
“Wait a moment,” Mrs. Hudson said, pulling an envelope from the mantel. “This came for you.”
Addy’s brow furrowed as she took it. It was addressed to Mrs. Hudson but held another envelope inside—one with her name scrawled in her mother’s familiar handwriting. She opened it carefully, revealing a cheerful Christmas card inside. Her parents wrote about their adventures in Mississippi, describing their plans for Christmas Eve at a favorite diner where they would eat pecan pie.
Her stomach growled at the memory of that pie. Before she could linger too long on the thought, Mrs. Hudson handed her a small box. Addy opened it to find it brimming with pecans.
“I thought you’d like a taste of home,” Mrs. Hudson said. “I’ll bake them into a pie for Christmas Day.”
Overwhelmed, Addy nodded quickly. “Thank you. I—I’d better go.” She clutched the card and the box to her chest and hurried up the stairs, her throat tight with emotion.
By the time she climbed into bed, the soft rustle of the snow outside had joined the steady rhythm of her thoughts. As she drifted off, a question surfaced in her mind: why had her Christmas card been sent to Mrs. Hudson? The thought lingered briefly before fading into the warmth of sleep.
I said:
Mr. Delaney should be called “Mr.” although his first name is Frank, and the other boarders and Mrs. Hudson can call him Frank. Addy thinks of him as Mr. Delaney. Mrs. Hudson’s first name is Myrna. Again, the others may occasionally call her that, but to Addy she is only Mrs. Hudson. The pecans are from Addy’s parents. The conversation between Addy and Mrs. Hudson in the kitchen should be a little more nuanced. The snow outside is not a quiet snowfall, but a blustery, windy, wet snow. Include some mention of Mr. Freeman’s snow shoveling and his meetings with cronies. The popcorn is dry, not buttered. Addy is not knitting while stringing popcorn, but she runs upstairs to retrieve the scarf to show Mrs. Hudson at some point during the garland making session
ChatGPT said:
The snow blew against the kitchen window in thick, wet swirls, driven by gusts that made the panes rattle. Inside, the kitchen was cozy and warm, the smell of dry popcorn mingling with the tang of cranberries as Addy and Mrs. Hudson sat stringing garlands at the scarred oak table.
Addy picked up another piece of popcorn, careful not to crush it as she threaded it onto the fine needle. “I hope Hazel likes the scarf. It’s taking forever, but I’m almost done.”
Mrs. Hudson glanced over her glasses, her hands steady as she worked. “Hazel strikes me as the sort who’ll appreciate the thought—and the effort. What color is it again?”
“Soft gray,” Addy said, her voice bright. “It’s the nicest yarn I’ve ever used. Want to see it?” Without waiting for a reply, she jumped up and ran upstairs. She returned moments later with the scarf, draped it over her arm, and held it out.
Mrs. Hudson took it, running her fingers lightly over the fine stitches. “This is beautiful work, Addy. You’ve got a good eye for detail. Hazel’s lucky to have a friend like you.”
Addy blushed, but the compliment warmed her. “She gave me a jar of fudge tied with a ribbon. I’ve never had a friend like her before.”
“Well,” Mrs. Hudson said, threading a cranberry onto her needle with practiced precision, “good friends are worth holding on to. Just like a good scarf on a night like this.”
Outside, the wind howled, carrying the occasional rumble of snowplows from the main street. “Do you think Mr. Freeman’s warm enough?” Addy asked, glancing toward the window.
Mrs. Hudson chuckled, but a faint shadow crossed her face. “Warm enough? That man shoveled the walks this morning like he was twenty years younger. Told me he’d worked up such a sweat he had to take his hat off. Strong as an ox, that one, even if he won’t admit his knees creak.” She tied off the end of her garland and started another. “Still, I’d like to box his ears for refusing the coffee I offered him after. Stubborn as the day is long.”
Addy smiled but didn’t miss the flicker of worry that briefly softened Mrs. Hudson’s usually shrewd features. “He’s always meeting his friends for cards or sitting on someone’s porch talking. I think he keeps going because he’s afraid to stop.”
Mrs. Hudson nodded. “You’re not wrong. Work, even if it’s shoveling snow, gives a person a reason to get out of bed.”
Addy hesitated, looking down at her hands. “That’s what you said about finishing school, isn’t it? That it gives me a reason?”
Mrs. Hudson met her gaze, her tone matter-of-fact. “It does. A high school diploma is more than a piece of paper, Addy. It’s a door. And it’s worth walking through, even if it takes effort to get there.”
Addy nodded, the thought settling over her like a second layer of warmth.
By evening, the parlor was filled with the cheerful chaos of the boarders gathering for the white elephant exchange. The Christmas tree stood in the corner, the garlands of popcorn and cranberries winding around its branches. The radio hummed softly in the background, and the table was laden with cookies and cups of cocoa.
Mr. Freeman sat in his usual armchair, recounting a story about his construction days, his voice rising and falling like the rhythms of the river he once worked beside. Lorna Rooney lounged on the settee, unwrapping a lemon drop with quick, sharp fingers. She was dressed in a neat skirt and blouse, her heels crossed at the ankles, and she laughed sharply at one of Mr. Delaney’s quips.
Mr. Delaney, or Frank as everyone but Addy called him, swept in from the hall, brushing snow from his coat and hair. “Would you believe they’ve barely touched the roads? Took me half the day to make it back from Portsmouth!” He hung his coat on the rack, leaving a wet patch on the polished floorboards.
Addy suppressed a frown, knowing Mrs. Hudson would mop it up later without a word of complaint. She would have come through the back door herself, thinking of Mrs. Hudson’s work, but Mr. Delaney never seemed to notice such things.
“Coffee, Myrna?” he asked as he settled onto the sofa.
Mrs. Hudson rose with a nod, a glimmer of amusement in her eyes. “Of course, Frank. Always coffee for you.”
The exchange was lighthearted and full of laughter. Mr. Freeman gave Lorna a tin of lemon drops, which she held up triumphantly. “How did you know?” she teased, her tone sardonic. Addy received a notebook from Lorna, and when she flipped it open, she found humorous advice penned in Lorna’s neat handwriting: Never trust a man with a better manicure than yours.
Addy’s gift to Mr. Delaney—a gaudy red tie—drew a round of laughter as he held it up with mock solemnity. “You’ve outdone yourself, Addy,” he said, winking at her. She managed a polite smile, though she felt a strange mix of fascination and unease about him.
After the gifts had been exchanged, Addy stood to leave. “I’d better head to bed. School tomorrow.”
“Wait a moment,” Mrs. Hudson said, pulling an envelope from the mantel. “This came for you.”
Addy took it, puzzled by the address: Mrs. Hudson’s name, not hers. Inside was a Christmas card from her parents, their handwriting familiar and cheerful as they described their adventures in Mississippi. They wrote about their plans for pecan pie on Christmas Eve at a diner Addy remembered well. Her stomach tightened at the memory of that sweet, buttery pie.
Then Mrs. Hudson handed her a small box. “Your parents sent these.”
Addy opened it to find a pile of pecans nestled inside. Tears pricked her eyes.
“I thought we could bake them into a pie for Christmas Day,” Mrs. Hudson said softly.
Addy nodded quickly, clutching the box and card to her chest. “Thank you. I—I’d better go.” She hurried upstairs, her throat tight with emotion. Only when she climbed into bed did it strike her as odd that the card had come through Mrs. Hudson first. But she was too warm, too tired, and too overwhelmed to dwell on it long before sleep claimed her.
I said:
I like this version much better. Can you keep it the same except add in two other prompts I forgot to insert, either the concept of or the actual words, “Fizzy sparkle” and “Redolence.”
ChatGPT said:
Certainly! Here’s the revised version incorporating “fizzy sparkle” and “redolence” into the narrative.
Christmas Gathering [Note: ChatGPT added this little “title” tag/heading.]
The snow blew against the kitchen window in thick, wet swirls, driven by gusts that made the panes rattle. Inside, the kitchen was cozy and warm, the smell of dry popcorn mingling with the tang of cranberries as Addy and Mrs. Hudson sat stringing garlands at the scarred oak table.
Addy picked up another piece of popcorn, careful not to crush it as she threaded it onto the fine needle. “I hope Hazel likes the scarf. It’s taking forever, but I’m almost done.”
Mrs. Hudson glanced over her glasses, her hands steady as she worked. “Hazel strikes me as the sort who’ll appreciate the thought—and the effort. What color is it again?”
“Soft gray,” Addy said, her voice bright. “It’s the nicest yarn I’ve ever used. Want to see it?” Without waiting for a reply, she jumped up and ran upstairs. She returned moments later with the scarf, draped it over her arm, and held it out.
Mrs. Hudson took it, running her fingers lightly over the fine stitches. “This is beautiful work, Addy. You’ve got a good eye for detail. Hazel’s lucky to have a friend like you.”
Addy blushed, but the compliment warmed her. “She gave me a jar of fudge tied with a ribbon. I’ve never had a friend like her before.”
“Well,” Mrs. Hudson said, threading a cranberry onto her needle with practiced precision, “good friends are worth holding on to. Just like a good scarf on a night like this.”
Outside, the wind howled, carrying the occasional rumble of snowplows from the main street. “Do you think Mr. Freeman’s warm enough?” Addy asked, glancing toward the window.
Mrs. Hudson chuckled, but a faint shadow crossed her face. “Warm enough? That man shoveled the walks this morning like he was twenty years younger. Told me he’d worked up such a sweat he had to take his hat off. Strong as an ox, that one, even if he won’t admit his knees creak.” She tied off the end of her garland and started another. “Still, I’d like to box his ears for refusing the coffee I offered him after. Stubborn as the day is long.”
Addy smiled but didn’t miss the flicker of worry that briefly softened Mrs. Hudson’s usually shrewd features. “He’s always meeting his friends for cards or sitting on someone’s porch talking. I think he keeps going because he’s afraid to stop.”
Mrs. Hudson nodded. “You’re not wrong. Work, even if it’s shoveling snow, gives a person a reason to get out of bed.”
Addy hesitated, looking down at her hands. “That’s what you said about finishing school, isn’t it? That it gives me a reason?”
Mrs. Hudson met her gaze, her tone matter-of-fact. “It does. A high school diploma is more than a piece of paper, Addy. It’s a door. And it’s worth walking through, even if it takes effort to get there.”
Addy nodded, the thought settling over her like a second layer of warmth.
By evening, the parlor was filled with the cheerful chaos of the boarders gathering for the white elephant exchange. The Christmas tree stood in the corner, the garlands of popcorn and cranberries winding around its branches. The redolence of gingerbread and coffee mingled with the crackling warmth of the fire, creating a festive atmosphere that made the blustery snowstorm outside feel worlds away.
The radio hummed softly in the background, and the table was laden with cookies and cups of cocoa. Mr. Freeman sat in his usual armchair, recounting a story about his construction days, his voice rising and falling like the rhythms of the river he once worked beside. Lorna Rooney lounged on the settee, unwrapping a lemon drop with quick, sharp fingers. She was dressed in a neat skirt and blouse, her heels crossed at the ankles, and she laughed sharply at one of Mr. Delaney’s quips.
Mr. Delaney, or Frank as everyone but Addy called him, swept in from the hall, brushing snow from his coat and hair. “Would you believe they’ve barely touched the roads? Took me half the day to make it back from Portsmouth!” He hung his coat on the rack, leaving a wet patch on the polished floorboards.
Addy suppressed a frown, knowing Mrs. Hudson would mop it up later without a word of complaint. She would have come through the back door herself, thinking of Mrs. Hudson’s work, but Mr. Delaney never seemed to notice such things.
“Coffee, Myrna?” he asked as he settled onto the sofa.
Mrs. Hudson rose with a nod, a glimmer of amusement in her eyes. “Of course, Frank. Always coffee for you.”
The exchange was lighthearted and full of laughter. Mr. Freeman gave Lorna a tin of lemon drops, which she held up triumphantly. “How did you know?” she teased, her tone sardonic. Addy received a notebook from Lorna, and when she flipped it open, she found humorous advice penned in Lorna’s neat handwriting: Never trust a man with a better manicure than yours.
Addy’s gift to Mr. Delaney—a gaudy red tie—drew a round of laughter as he held it up with mock solemnity. “You’ve outdone yourself, Addy,” he said, winking at her. She managed a polite smile, though she felt a strange mix of fascination and unease about him.
The white elephant gifts were modest, but the atmosphere had a fizzy sparkle, as though everyone had agreed to put their worries aside for one evening. After the last gift was opened, Addy stood to leave. “I’d better head to bed. School tomorrow.”
“Wait a moment,” Mrs. Hudson said, pulling an envelope from the mantel. “This came for you.”
Addy took it, puzzled by the address: Mrs. Hudson’s name, not hers. Inside was a Christmas card from her parents, their handwriting familiar and cheerful as they described their adventures in Mississippi. They wrote about their plans for pecan pie on Christmas Eve at a diner Addy remembered well. Her stomach tightened at the memory of that sweet, buttery pie.
Then Mrs. Hudson handed her a small box. “Your parents sent these.”
Addy opened it to find a pile of pecans nestled inside. Tears pricked her eyes.
“I thought we could bake them into a pie for Christmas Day,” Mrs. Hudson said softly.
Addy nodded quickly, clutching the box and card to her chest. “Thank you. I—I’d better go.” She hurried upstairs, her throat tight with emotion. Only when she climbed into bed did it strike her as odd that the card had come through Mrs. Hudson first. But she was too warm, too tired, and too overwhelmed to dwell on it long before sleep claimed her.
ChatGPT said:
The edits have been made to include the concepts of “fizzy sparkle” and “redolence” while maintaining the atmosphere and flow of the narrative. Let me know if you’d like any further refinements or additions!
[Note: Can’t help but smile at ChatGPT’s unflagging enthusiasm! 🙂 ]
Katherine Wikoff 