“Whispers in the Mist”
OK, so now we know who Julianne Hartley is, it’s time to find out how well she can write!
ChatGPT’s initial ‘book’ was super short. So I thought maybe it’s easier to work on one chapter at a time, because it’s not set-up to generate a whole book from one prompt (unless there is a secret grimoire prompt to make that happen). And since the book was just a stepping stone to my ultimate goal, ‘the letter to the editor’, I took a different tack.
Through a bit of back and forth, ChatGPT and I decided that a short form publishing platform like Wattpad or Kindle Vela might suit our creative endeavour.
Then we worked on a narrative arc, chapter plan and character development.
I deliberately wanted to keep a ‘light touch’ on creative input, as I wanted to see what ChatGPT could do ‘on its own’, but I did feed in a bit of context, sharing that “I very much like the approach of Boston Teran, creating hugely emotional, tense, character and event driven narratives but set in a really accurate and deeply researched historical context.”
ChatGPT took note, and penned the bio you already saw in Julianne’s ‘origin story’ post (click bottom left if you haven’t read that yet). It gave me recommendations for writing style, genre, characters and time setting - here’s what it suggested for the time period:
”Let's set the story in the late 20th century, around the 1980s or 1990s. This time frame allows for a blend of modern elements and a sense of historical depth, particularly in a small town like Willow Creek where traditions and folklore are deeply ingrained.”
Overall, I was impressed with it as a creative partner. I can honestly see some writers finding it a useful tool, without overwhelming their own approach and style.
So what of the story? Well, I think it did a much better job than ‘Death of an Author’, the AI generated novel from earlier this year that featured gems like “The smell of coffee was like a fog burning off a field”.
See what you think. It’s a story about a young woman returning to the town she grew up in, and becoming drawn into unraveling secrets from the town’s and her family’s past. Chat GPT explains its relevance to current times in this way: “the secret resonates with contemporary themes like the impact of rapid technological change, environmental sustainability, and the ethical dilemmas posed by progress versus tradition. It metaphorically reflects current debates on how communities and individuals must adapt to or resist the relentless march of progress and the consequences of such decisions.”
It might not worry any human authors right now, but if you take this as a starting point for its creative capabilities, I’m not sure we’ll be quite so sanguine in another 12 months’ time.
(Just jump down and click to the left if you want to go straight to Julianne’s response to the Guardian.)
Whispers in the Mist, Chapter 1: Return to Willow Creek
The road leading into Willow Creek wound through the Smoky Mountains like a ribbon tying together past and present. Each bend in the road revealed glimpses of a town seemingly suspended in time, a place where my childhood memories lay dormant, waiting to be awakened. As I drove, the familiar landscape unfolded, each curve in the road stirring a part of my soul that I had long since neglected.
I hadn't returned to Willow Creek in over a decade. Life, with its relentless pace, had swept me away – first to the bustling energy of a metropolitan city, then across the country’s vast expanse, and finally around the globe in a whirlwind of career pursuits and fleeting adventures. But now, the sudden passing of my grandmother, Margaret Monroe, had called me back, her final whisper echoing through the mists of time.
Entering the town was like traveling not just in distance, but in eras. The old-fashioned street lamps, the rustic storefronts, and the unhurried, rhythmic pace of life stood in stark contrast to the world I had become accustomed to. A sense of nostalgia washed over me, mixed with a feeling of alienation – this was once my home, yet now it felt distant, almost unreal.
Pulling up to the Monroe house, a sense of unease settled over me. The two-story Victorian home, with its faded blue paint and ivy-clad walls, stood as a testament to a bygone era. It was here, in this house of secrets and memories, that I had spent the summers of my youth, listening to my grandmother's tales filled with enigmatic characters and exploring the dense forests that bordered our land.
As I stepped out of the car, the mist that perpetually shrouded Willow Creek enveloped me. It was cool and comforting, like the gentle embrace of an old friend. For a moment, I allowed myself to be lost in its embrace, feeling the weight of my grandmother's absence and the unspoken stories that lingered in the air.
Entering the house was like stepping into a time capsule. Everything was as I remembered – the antique furniture, the faded photographs on the walls, and the faint scent of lavender that always seemed to linger. It was in this house that I would begin my journey of unraveling the mysteries of the Monroe legacy – a journey that would challenge everything I knew about my family, my past, and myself.
As I wandered through the rooms, each corner of the house whispered fragments of forgotten conversations and laughter. The living room, with its large fireplace and the grand piano, brought back memories of family gatherings, music filling the air, and my grandmother’s vibrant stories painting pictures of a world both wondrous and mysterious.
In the kitchen, I found the old oak table where we had shared countless meals and conversations. The walls, adorned with old recipe cards and faded newspaper clippings, were a mosaic of the life my grandmother had lived – a life that seemed both ordinary and extraordinary.
Making my way upstairs, I entered my grandmother’s bedroom. It was a sanctum of her personal history, with every object telling a story – the vintage jewelry box on the dresser, the collection of old books by her bedside, and the numerous trinkets from her travels around the world. But it was the old writing desk by the window that drew me in. On it lay an old diary, its leather cover worn and pages yellowed with age.
Curiosity piqued, I opened the diary to find my grandmother's neat handwriting chronicling her life in Willow Creek. But as I flipped through the pages, I came across entries that seemed out of place – cryptic notes about ‘voices in the mist’ and ‘a pact with time.’ The words sent a shiver down my spine, hinting at secrets far deeper and more enigmatic than the family tales I had grown up with.
The evening set in, and the mist outside grew denser, almost as if it were trying to conceal its secrets. As I sat there, immersed in the diary, I couldn’t shake the feeling that Willow Creek, and the mist that clung to it, held mysteries far more profound than I had ever imagined. Mysteries that were now mine to uncover.
What was this pact my grandmother wrote about? Who were the voices in the mist? And what did all this mean for me, the last of the Monroes? A sense of foreboding mixed with an unquenchable thirst for the truth settled over me. I knew then that my return to Willow Creek was no mere chance – it was destiny calling me to unravel a legacy that intertwined my family’s fate with the mystical heart of this town.
As the night deepened, I resolved to delve deeper into the diary, into my grandmother’s past, and into the heart of Willow Creek. Little did I know that this decision would set me on a path that would change my life forever.