Note to readers: This article contains content created by LLM ChatGPT. The story portion is the product of my prompt and ChatGPT’s response. The rest of the article is my unadulterated creation, thunk up out of my own brain. Please, contact me with questions related to this article or the series of articles.

Week six of my analysis of ChatGPT’s storytelling skills begins with an assessment of my progress on AI story development tools. I believe I’m learning more about writing, but it may simply be that I’m a fool. This latter concept is also suggested by the TL;DR nature of this article. I mean, really? I can’t say even I would be able to endure the journey of reading it all.

 

Comprehending the Large Language Model Artificial Intelligence and its Hirelings.

The Hirelings are chat bots. They gather the oodles of data LLMs have processed and carry them to and fro, dispersing buckets of amalgamated knowledge to the masses. Get your bucketful now. Ask ChatGPT, or Claude.ai, or Gemini even, “Where should I keep the butter?” I’ll wait.

Did you find their response accurate? How human did it sound to your ear? 

In my test, they all came up with the same basic response. ChatGPT gave a general guidance followed by enumerated points of preference. “Cool, dark place… 1. Fridge, 2. Counter,” reminding one not to keep it too long on the counter. Gemini suggested the same advice, with emphasis on the enumerated points and safety: “Store it in the back of the fridge, where it’s coldest.” Gemini also used the word rancid to encourage one to use it quickly if kept on the countertop. 

Claude.ai talks to you like a grownup, providing the information in a conversational paragraph. Check this out: “For everyday use, store butter in an airtight container or butter dish in the refrigerator. This keeps it fresh and prevents it from absorbing odors from other foods. If you prefer softer, spreadable butter, you can keep a small amount at room temperature in a butter crock or butter bell for a few days. For longer-term storage, butter can be frozen for several months.”

These responses follow a pattern I’ve noticed while learning how to use AI chat bots when building a short story. ChatGPT and Gemini tend toward informational responses that sound flat and dry. Claude.ai presents information in a more natural, flowing style. This makes Claude the current winner for use in creative expression. 

Since the creation of chat bots offers an endless fount of appeal for both programmers and marketers, new models and new versions are a constant element in the AI world. I could never hope to test them all for their creative value. It also means that one day Claude.ai is on top, and the next it’s the latest iteration of ChatGPT.

If you’ve been paying attention to the last two or three post prompts, you may have noticed I began to provide a little direction for ChatGPT. This interference may have mangled the purity of my experiment. Trouble is, my nature is to interject randomly without giving enough thought to the consequence. I make a great jester, but a lousy scientist.

I point to the prompts not to indicate my failings as a researcher. Rather to show how chat bots do their job. They require human guidance. It all started with, “Hey, ChatGPT, write me a mystery story in the noir style.” It’s all downhill from there. Unless you, the creative behind the first prompt, decide to steer. 

Let’s continue with this metaphor. The wagon that began to roll with your prompt bounces down the incline, spilling out ideas in the form of sentences and paragraphs. When it approaches a bump or depression in the landscape, you give the handle a nudge, by use of an additional prompt, to navigate. Your guidance steers around the ridge, or into the gully, or sends that wagon sailing over the crest like a child on a Schwinn in the 1970s. 

The challenge the creative faces lies in the infinite number of anomalies that define the writing landscape. Plot, characters, setting, character voices, story types, author voice, tone. Shall I go on? Every one of these elements can be addressed using AI prompts, which theoretically allows one to generate prose in a very specific and personal style. Theoretically. 

In previous posts, I used the analogy of receiving 500 boxes of random brilliance from Amazon and sorting them until you have a usable chat bot model. One that sounds like you, the creative writer. The chat bot generates content based on highly sophisticated prompts programmed by you, the creative. Then you, the creative, get to work editing out the parts that missed the mark. We might talk about those later. 

Originality. In this new era, it becomes much clearer how unoriginal it is. Authors used to read books, use libraries and encyclopedias, even rely on personal experiences to accumulate the knowledge required to scribble a tome. Now, we watch YouTubes and Google stuff. (Tongue in cheek.) But always, we collect things that already exist and reshape them into an original, personal rendition of the human narrative.

The prompt continues.

Tell me a story, scene six.

Shadows in the Smoke

Harland had been working non-stop, his focus razor-sharp as he followed every lead, every whisper, that might bring him closer to The Widow. But the more he dug, the more elusive she became, like a shadow slipping through his fingers. He knew he was close—he could feel it—but something kept tugging at the edge of his thoughts, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

It was a Tuesday evening when Eleanor mentioned the cousin.

“I ran into someone today,” she said casually as they sat down to dinner. “A cousin of mine—well, distant, really. I hadn’t seen him in years.”

Harland looked up from his plate, his detective’s instincts immediately on alert. “A cousin? I didn’t know you had any cousins in town.”

“I didn’t either,” Eleanor replied with a slight frown. “His name is Edward. He said he was passing through and thought he’d look me up. It was so strange—I barely recognized him. Last time I saw him, we were kids.”

Harland felt a prickle of unease. “Did he mention why he was in town?”

“He said it was business,” Eleanor replied, twirling her fork absentmindedly. “He’s into real estate now, apparently. We had coffee, caught up a bit, but… I don’t know, something about him felt off.”

Harland’s unease deepened. He knew the kind of people who passed through this city, and he didn’t like the idea of someone suddenly reappearing in Eleanor’s life, especially with The Widow out there.

“What did you talk about?” he asked, trying to keep his tone casual.

“Just family stuff, mostly,” Eleanor said with a shrug. “He asked about you, too—wanted to know what you were up to. I told him you were working on a case, nothing specific. He seemed interested in you, though, asked a lot of questions.”

Harland’s jaw tightened. “Did he?”

“Yeah, but I didn’t tell him much. He was… I don’t know, kind of pushy about it. I just thought he was being curious, but now that I’m thinking about it, it was a little strange.”

“Did you mention anything about The Widow?” Harland asked, his voice betraying his concern.

“No,” Eleanor said quickly. “Of course not. I just told him you were working on something big, but I didn’t go into details.”

Harland nodded, but his mind was racing. This “cousin” could be nothing more than a coincidence—or he could be something more. Someone sent by The Widow, perhaps, to worm his way into Eleanor’s life, to gather information. Or worse.

“Where’s he staying?” Harland asked.

“He didn’t say,” Eleanor replied, her frown deepening. “He just said he was in town for a few days. Why? Do you think something’s wrong?”

“I don’t know,” Harland admitted. “But I want to find out. If he contacts you again, I need you to let me know right away. And don’t tell him anything else about what I’m doing, okay?”

Eleanor nodded, clearly worried now. “Okay, John. I’ll be careful.”

That night, as Eleanor slept beside him, Harland lay awake, staring at the ceiling. The more he thought about it, the more this “distant cousin” didn’t add up. Why would someone suddenly reappear in Eleanor’s life, asking questions about him, just when he was getting close to unraveling The Widow’s plans?

The next morning, Harland wasted no time. He pulled every string he could, using his contacts to dig up whatever he could find on “Edward,” Eleanor’s mysterious cousin. It didn’t take long for the results to come in, and when they did, they confirmed his worst fears.

There was no distant cousin named Edward in Eleanor’s family. The man she had met wasn’t related to her at all.

Harland’s heart pounded as he read through the report. Whoever this Edward was, he was an imposter—and a good one at that. He had managed to convince Eleanor of his identity, even charmed her into trusting him. But why? What was his endgame?

And then it hit him like a freight train: The Widow.

This was her play. This “cousin” was one of her pawns, sent to gather information, to probe for weaknesses. Maybe even to plant seeds of doubt between him and Eleanor. The Widow was trying to turn the very thing he was trying to protect—his marriage—into a weapon against him.

Harland knew he had to act fast. He needed to confront this “Edward” and find out what he knew, who he was working for. But he also needed to protect Eleanor, to make sure she wasn’t drawn any deeper into this web of lies and deceit.

He decided to wait for Edward to make the next move. If this imposter was in town for a reason, he’d show his hand sooner or later. And when he did, Harland would be ready.

A few days later, Eleanor received a call from Edward, asking to meet again. She was nervous, knowing what Harland had told her, but she agreed, playing along as if she were none the wiser. They arranged to meet at a small café downtown, the kind of place where they wouldn’t be noticed.

But Harland would be there, too—watching, waiting.

The day of the meeting, Harland positioned himself in a corner of the café, hidden behind a newspaper. He watched as Eleanor walked in, her eyes scanning the room nervously. A few minutes later, Edward arrived, smiling warmly as he approached her.

Harland studied him closely. The man looked the part—dressed in a sharp suit, with a confident air about him. But Harland could see through the façade. This wasn’t a cousin; this was a snake, slithering his way into their lives.

The conversation started innocuously enough—small talk, pleasantries. But Harland noticed how Edward kept steering the conversation back to him, asking more pointed questions about his work, about how much time he spent away from home.

Eleanor played her part well, deflecting his questions with ease, but Harland could see the strain on her face. She knew this was more than just a friendly chat—this was a test, and she was in the middle of it.

Finally, Edward leaned in closer, his voice low and conspiratorial. “You know, Eleanor, I’ve been thinking. John’s job—it must be hard on you. All those late nights, all that stress. Are you sure he’s not keeping things from you?”

Eleanor stiffened, her eyes flashing with anger. “What are you trying to say, Edward?”

“I’m just saying,” Edward continued smoothly, “that sometimes, men like John—men who are always wrapped up in their work—they forget what really matters. They start keeping secrets. Maybe you should start asking some questions of your own.”

That was enough for Harland. He’d heard enough.

He set the newspaper down and stood, his heart pounding as he walked toward their table. Edward didn’t see him coming until it was too late. Harland’s hand clamped down on his shoulder, and Edward looked up in surprise, his smile faltering.

“Time to go, pal,” Harland said, his voice cold.

Edward’s eyes widened, but he quickly recovered, trying to play it off. “John, hey! I was just—”

“I know exactly what you were just doing,” Harland cut him off, his grip tightening. “And it’s over.”

Edward looked around the café, trying to gauge his options. But there was no escape. Harland wasn’t going to let him walk out of there without answers.

He leaned in close, his voice a low growl. “Who sent you? What do you want?”

Edward swallowed hard, his confidence evaporating under Harland’s glare. “Look, I was just following orders. It’s not what you think.”

“Not what I think?” Harland sneered. “You’re a liar and a con. You’re not her cousin, and you’re sure as hell not here on a social visit. Now, you’re going to tell me who you’re working for, or we can take this outside.”

Edward’s eyes darted to Eleanor, who was watching in shock, then back to Harland. He was cornered, and he knew it. “Alright, alright,” he muttered. “I’ll talk. Just… not here.”

Harland nodded, releasing his grip slightly but not taking his eyes off Edward. “Fine. Outside.”

He glanced at Eleanor, giving her a reassuring look. “Stay here, I’ll handle this.”

She nodded, though her worry was evident. As Harland escorted Edward out of the café, his mind was racing. He needed to get to the bottom of this, to find out how deep The Widow’s influence ran—and how much danger they were really in.

Outside, in the alley behind the café, Harland pushed Edward against the wall, his patience wearing thin. “Start talking. Now.”

Edward looked around nervously, his bravado completely gone. “It’s The Widow. She sent me to get close to Eleanor, to find out what you knew. She wanted leverage on you—something she could use to control you.”

“Leverage?” Harland repeated, his voice deadly calm. “What kind of leverage?”

Edward swallowed, fear etched on his face. “Anything. Your marriage, your personal life—anything that would make you vulnerable. She… she said you were getting too close, that she needed to 

[A break in continuity occurred here with ChatGPT. It continued with a simple prompt.]

make sure you wouldn’t interfere.”

Harland’s blood ran cold. This wasn’t just about the case anymore—this was about Eleanor, about his life. The Widow was trying to tear him down from the inside, to use the one thing he cared about most as a weapon against him.

“Where is she?” Harland demanded, his voice like ice.

“I don’t know,” Edward stammered. “She moves around, never stays in one place for long. But she’s watching, Harland. She’s always watching.”

Harland’s mind raced as he considered his options. He could take Edward in, try to use him to get closer to The Widow. But he knew that would only buy him time. The Widow was too smart, too careful. If she sensed any weakness, she’d strike harder, faster.

He let go of Edward, stepping back. “Get out of town. Now. And if I ever see you again, you won’t get a second chance.”

Edward didn’t need to be told twice. He nodded frantically and took off down the alley, disappearing into the night.

Harland watched him go, his mind churning with thoughts of what had just happened. The Widow was closer than he’d thought, and she was playing for keeps. But now, he knew her game—and he wasn’t going to let her win.

He returned to the café, where Eleanor was waiting anxiously. She stood as he approached, searching his face for answers.

“What did he say?” she asked, her voice trembling.

Harland took her hands in his, his expression serious. “It’s The Widow. She sent him to get close to you, to find out what I knew. But I stopped him before he could do any real damage.”

Eleanor’s face paled, and she shook her head in disbelief. “John, I had no idea…”

“I know,” Harland said softly, pulling her into a hug. “But it’s over now. We’ll get through this, I promise.”

As they stood together, Harland knew that the battle wasn’t over. The Widow was still out there, still a threat. But now, he was more determined than ever to protect what mattered most.

He would find The Widow. He would stop her. And he would do whatever it took to keep Eleanor safe, no matter the cost.

 

What did we learn about ChatGPT’s ability to tell a worthwhile tale?

ChatGPT loves to use clichés. It writes, “And then it hit him like a freight train: The Widow.” It makes the point. Albeit blandly. For a quick and easy read clichés like this can work. Many human writers do the same. I’d argue that it’s more effective when the author uses a phrasing more relevant to characterization. It hit him like a sucker punch from a cheating husband. 

But we’re letting ChatGPT do its thing here. 

Another cliché used by ChatGPT is the description, “his mind was racing.” I’ve noticed this is a favorite of chat bots. It makes me wonder if they have a cute sense of humor, mocking the relative slowness of the human mind.

More to the point of my critique, we can examine the glaring ignorance implied by that particular revelation that hit him like a freight train. The Widow. Why wasn’t Harlan thinking of the Widow all along? We certainly are. In fact, she’s the most significant ingredient in the creation of this story. This is a failure on ChatGPT’s part. It makes Harland look more than incompetent. It makes him look dangerously foolish.

To take it a step further, once Harland realizes Edward is a direct threat sent from the Widow, he then chooses to, “wait for Edward to make the next move.” What? First of all, this decision removes immediacy from the threat. It implies Harland has plenty of time to protect his wife from the Widow’s evil machinations. It also suggests that Harland is a simpleton who dismisses any aforementioned potential for multiple angles of attack from the diabolical Widow. Without a narrative line showing how Harland waits or what he is doing while he waits, the detective comes off as passive and impotent. How about this instead? Harland shadowed Eleanor everywhere she went, waiting for Edward to make his next move. Now he sounds like a private eye who understands the devious nature of his foe and is also obsessed with the safety of his wife. 

A lot of ChatGPT lines lack descriptive clarity. Take this one: “But Harland could see through [Edward’s] façade.” What allows him this degree of perception? Does he have X-ray glasses purchased from the back of a comic book? This scene beat offered an excellent opportunity to reveal Harland’s keen observation skills and intuition in a way that would make him more appealing as a detective. Alternatively, it could have shown how emotionally compromised he’d become when the Widow involved his wife. 

In much of this story, ChatGPT utilizes the narrative tool called I-said-it-therefore-it-is-so. I’ve seen this tool employed by million-copy bestsellers, so it may trouble me more than it troubles the general populace. 

A more confusing device occurs soon after, when Edward says, “It’s The Widow. She sent me to get close to Eleanor.” This is the criminal genius who is so devious and unscrupulous, so slick and unable to be caught. Yet, she shares her identity with every minion she hires to do her dirty work? In the hiring of Edward, The Widow exercised the mastermind prowess of the Joker from a 1960s Batman episode.

I’ve noticed that ChatGPT likes to etch fear into the faces of characters. It happens when Edward’s terror shifts focus from the fiendish Widow who holds sway over an entire city, onto the more immediate threat from an angry detective. As Harland’s blood turns cold, the case gets personal… wait. Haven’t we been here before? Didn’t the case become personal in the previous scene? Maybe ChatGPT is having difficulty keeping up with its previously stated ideas. 

Harland, true to his design, demands that Edward reveal the underground and highly guarded location of The Widow. He must do this, because that’s what detectives do. No matter whether the author has established the legitimacy of such a query. In this case, I would say that ChatGPT did not establish that legitimacy.

Of course, when Edward cannot tell Harland the answer, it confirms the supreme intellectual power of the Widow. She’s undetectable, quick-footed, possibly a wraith. This is when we learn of Harland’s impervious bravery by implication. He ain’t afraid of no ghost. Though the Widow plays for keeps, “he wasn’t going to let her win.” Presumably, because he’s John Harland, Private Eye. This is ChatGPT using that old I-said-it-therefore-it-is-so meme.

Stay tuned for next time. Will we learn that John Harland is a complete putz, overestimating his capabilities in the face of pure evil? Or will he be revealed as the gallant knight, unhindered by fear or common sense?