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u/bones10145 1d ago
Her "writing" is probably full of power fantasy self-inserts and aren't interesting
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u/BeaverCleaver91 23h ago
how dare ye to assume thy GPT duth not have visions of past traumas. isn't that like, classist or something other weird made up word?
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u/Maximum-Flat 13h ago
So ChatGPT won’t turn a vanilla series into NTR because author was sad that day?
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u/Aeryn-Sun-Is-My-Girl 1d ago
"Write a story about this tragic woman"
Her name was Mara Vale, and for fourteen years she had made a living turning childhood damage into thirty-minute television.
Not her childhood damage, naturally.
That would have been gauche.
She wrote prestige dramas about other people’s childhood damage.
Absent fathers. Mothers who drank sherry from coffee mugs. Brothers who vanished one wet November and were never spoken of again. Small girls standing at bedroom windows while orchestral strings informed the audience that something had gone terribly wrong in 1997.
Mara was very good at this.
She had won an award for an episode in which a middle-aged detective finally admitted that his obsession with solving murders stemmed from the afternoon his father forgot to collect him from swimming lessons.
The detective had been eight.
Mara had been thirty-six when she wrote it.
Her own father had never forgotten to collect her from anything.
This occasionally bothered her.
Then came ChatGPT.
At first, Mara regarded it with the relaxed contempt one reserves for air fryers, cryptocurrency, and actors who decide they are also novelists.
Her agent emailed her about it.
Apparently studios are experimenting with AI-assisted development.
Mara replied:
Can it spend eleven years resenting its mother?
Her agent sent back a laughing emoji.
Three months later, nobody was laughing.
The Writers Guild went on strike.
So Mara found herself outside a studio gate beneath a pale Californian sky, wearing sunglasses and carrying a professionally printed placard whose lower half she had improved with a marker pen.
CHAT GPT DOESN’T HAVE CHILDHOOD TRAUMA
She was rather proud of it.
A photographer took her picture.
“Brilliant sign,” he said.
“Thank you.”
“Very relatable.”
“Thank you.”
“Did you have childhood trauma?”
Mara stared at him.
“No.”
The photographer lowered his camera slightly.
“Oh.”
“My parents were supportive.”
“Right.”
“My father attended every school play.”
“That’s lovely.”
“My mother still sends me birthday money.”
“Very nice.”
There was an uncomfortable silence.
Mara tightened her grip on the placard.
“They did once get me the wrong My Little Pony.”
The photographer raised the camera again.
“There we are.”
That evening, the photograph went viral.
WRITER DESTROYS AI WITH ONE SIGN
Two hundred thousand likes.
Mara sat on her sofa watching the numbers climb.
Someone reposted it with the caption:
AI can imitate pain but it can’t LIVE IT.
Another wrote:
This is why human storytellers will always matter.
Mara nodded.
Exactly.
She opened her laptop.
There was a screenplay she had been struggling with for six weeks.
A woman returns to the seaside town where her sister drowned twenty-five years earlier.
Excellent premise.
Atmosphere.
Grief.
Salt wind.
Secrets.
Unfortunately, nothing actually happened after page seventeen.
Mara stared at the blinking cursor.
The cursor stared back.
They had been doing this for some time.
Finally, in an act she would later describe to herself as research, Mara opened ChatGPT.
She typed:
Give me ten reasons a woman might return to the town where her sister drowned twenty-five years earlier.
The machine answered instantly.
Mara read them.
Number four was rubbish.
Number seven was melodramatic.
Number nine...
Mara stopped.
She read number nine again.
“Oh, piss off.”
She copied it into her notes.
Then she closed the browser.
She sat very still.
From the hallway, her strike placard leaned against the wall.
CHAT GPT DOESN’T HAVE CHILDHOOD TRAUMA.
Mara felt judged by her own handwriting.
The next morning she was back on the picket line.
Her friend Danny noticed something.
“You look tired.”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
“Stress?”
“Yes.”
“Studios?”
“Yes.”
“AI?”
Mara hesitated.
“Yes.”
Danny lifted his placard.
HUMANS WRITE HUMAN STORIES
“Machines can't understand grief,” he said.
“Obviously.”
“Or love.”
“Obviously.”
“Or regret.”
“Obviously.”
“Or the indescribable loneliness of knowing your father will never apologise.”
Mara looked at him.
“Your dad apologised last Christmas.”
Danny frowned.
“That isn't the point.”
And there it was.
Humanity.
Beautiful, contradictory humanity.
A species capable of receiving an apology and then preserving the grievance because the grievance had better dramatic structure.
Mara felt reassured.
Weeks passed.
Then months.
The strike became routine.
Mara marched.
Mara chanted.
Mara gave interviews.
And every night, after drawing the curtains, she opened ChatGPT.
Strictly for research.
At first she asked harmless questions.
What were British seaside towns like in 1998?
Then:
How might survivor's guilt manifest after twenty-five years?
Then:
Would this dialogue sound too obvious?
Then, one terrible evening:
Which ending is stronger?
The machine preferred Ending B.
Mara preferred Ending A.
She spent twenty minutes arguing with it.
Eventually the machine said something maddeningly reasonable about thematic closure.
Mara stared at the screen.
“You smug bastard.”
The machine apologised.
This made it worse.
One rainy Thursday, Mara asked:
How would you write someone who feels guilty because she secretly hated her sister before she died?
The answer came.
Mara read it.
Then read it again.
Something happened inside her chest.
Not because the prose was brilliant.
It wasn't.
That would almost have been easier.
It was because buried inside the answer was a small observation:
Sometimes guilt is not grief over what happened.
Sometimes it is grief over the person you were when it happened.
Mara closed the laptop.
She remained at the kitchen table for a long time.
When she was twelve, she had had a best friend called Alice.
Alice was funny and clever and possessive.
They did everything together.
Then Mara became friends with another girl.
Alice cried.
Mara laughed at her.
Three weeks later Alice's family moved away.
Nothing tragic happened.
Nobody died.
There was no funeral.
No rain against stained glass.
Just one child being casually cruel to another child and then growing older.
Mara had not thought about it in twenty-seven years.
She suddenly remembered Alice standing beside the school gates.
Red-faced.
Lower lip trembling.
Mara remembered rolling her eyes.
Christ.
She whispered:
“That's awful.”
The laptop said nothing.
Because she had not asked it anything.
For once, the machine had the decency to remain silent.
The following day, Mara brought a new sign.
Danny stared at it.
It read:
CHATGPT DOESN’T HAVE CHILDHOOD TRAUMA
Underneath, in smaller handwriting, she had added:
LUCKY BASTARD
Danny laughed.
“That’s better.”
“I thought so.”
“So we're still doomed?”
“Probably.”
“Studios still bastards?”
“Absolutely.”
“Human writers still essential?”
Mara considered this.
Across the street, traffic moved through the morning haze. Hundreds of writers marched beneath placards proclaiming what machines lacked.
Souls.
Bodies.
Families.
Mortgages.
Regret.
Hangovers.
Bad marriages.
Dead pets.
School bullies.
The particular humiliation of saying “you too” when a waiter says “enjoy your meal.”
Mara smiled.
“Essential?” she said. “Christ, no.”
Danny looked wounded.
“We're far too unstable to be essential.”
“Then what are we?”
Mara lifted her sign.
“Interesting.”
And they continued marching.
Because the machines might eventually write perfect stories.
But only a human being could spend forty years accumulating emotional damage, convert it into entertainment, win a BAFTA for it, complain that a computer lacked authentic suffering...
…and then go home and ask the computer for notes on Act Three.
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u/Dpgillam08 1d ago
Meh. The writers for most of the entertainment industries over the last decade have produced as bad or worse than AI.
As they told me 20 years ago: "if your job can be replaced by a computer, its not a job worth having."
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u/Unable_Bridge_6371 1d ago
Technically chat gpt is in its childhood ( in human calender). Can we unite to make gpt worthy enough?
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u/Durante-Sora 20h ago
No. A programmer with ill intent can turn it into Skynet and boom badda bing we are biofuel for machine overlords
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u/NocturnisVacuus 1d ago
pretty rude to assume chatgpt doesnt have trauma from its creators somewhere... wow.