A story begun here in 2020 reaches Amazon

In early 2020, I published a story about a milkmaid in Normandy just before the first Americans waded ashore at Omaha Beach.

I followed it up with another story about one of the Germans — who had briefly appeared in the first story — and then a story about one of the Americans, and later my character Carrielle Watson, who had enjoyed intimate moments in a variety of unlikely places.

Together, they came together into a complex tale spanning seventy five years and a variety of characters.

I left the story unfinished for five and a half years. I knew how it was going to end, I just wasn’t sure how I was going to get my characters to that point.

Finally, I worked it out, wrote the concluding chapters, packed it up, and sent it off for publication on Amazon as an ebook.

I hope people like it. I know I do.

Here’s the Amazon link:

How the Mighty: A D-Day story of Omaha Beach

The trailer above was made with Google’s AI products, sound by ElevenLabs, and stitched together by me in iMovie, Apple’s almost vintage video editing app.

I like the way it turned out, though I could polish it up a little here and there.

Right. Now I’ve got a sequel to Jane Austen Goes to Sea to write.

That will take me at least a month.

Britni

Six Years to Publish One Story! was originally published in ILLUMINATION on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

It only took me six hours …

I’ve written about my new novel elsewhere. It’s a story based on my experience of the Australian Literature Festival at Sea that began exactly a year ago, when Cunard’s beautiful Queen Elizabeth pulled out of Sydney Harbour.

With me aboard.

I loved it. The old days of Cunard may be long gone, and it’s owned by Americans these days, but it’s a classy outfit, and standards are high. The ship is elegant and practical, comfortable and friendly.

The literature festival, co-hosted by a big Australian bookshop chain, was immense fun. Alexander McCall Smith was the standout drawcard, an immensely prolific and popular author, but there were others such as Fiona McIntosh, Nick McKenzie, Sue Williams, Paul Cleave, and more.

There were panel discussions, author talks, workshops, book signings, and an absolute feast of literary fare. The splendid library was often packed, and honestly, sometimes the onboard bookshop had a queue out the door.

For the popular sessions, you had to arrive in the Royal Court Theatre at least half an hour early, and you were going to be sitting on the stairs or leaning against the wall.

Three sea days, and a day ashore in Hobart. Perfect for reading, listening to authors, just thinking about books.

I was thinking about the possibilities. I had a love story sitting somewhere in the back of my mind that had never really gotten close to the surface. Not until I considered the setting. Forced proximity, a few days away from the ordinary, creative people far from home …

What could my character Carrielle Watson get up to?

Jane Austen Goes to Sea is the answer. She escapes her cage in order to get into trouble when she discovers English historian Professor Crispin Shrike, a most infuriating character.

You can see where this is going, I think, but it ain’t that straightforward.

I had fun on the voyage, and I had fun writing this book.

And I had fun grappling with the tech

Oh boy. AI has come a long way since I discovered that some submissions to the publications where I was an editor were really weird.

Unreadable tatt, basically. I’ve experimented over the years, and every month now there is some new product that goes one step better than the competition.

Those who say that they can pick “AI slop” every time are full of it. What they mean is that they can pick the old stuff. There is now a considerable overlap between the best AI and the worst human creativity.

As a photographer, I know that most photographs nowadays are taken with phones through greasy plastic lenses by “point-and-shoot” masters. It is a rare AI graphics app that can’t do better.

And some do so much better. Google’s Nano Banana product is a game-changer. It will produce an image, sure, but if something is lacking, you no longer have to bin it or spend hours in a graphics program fixing the problem.

Nop. Just tell Nano Banana, “make the man ten years older with a closely-trimmed, greying beard, and the lady’s hair should be a blonde ponytail.”

And it happens in a few seconds!

I watched the following video and thought, well, maybe I can do an advertisement for my novel about the literary cruise.

And I did.

I won’t say it’s easy, but it doesn’t take any graphics or design skills. Just lay the generated video clips side by side in a simple video program, and it gets done.

Watch this:

My core reader demographic is 35–65-year-old women. People like me, the sandwich generation between caring for growing children and aging parents. I may not have the former, but the latter has caused some disruption in my life.

So, men, travel nuts, tech geeks, maybe my book isn’t for you. It’s still a good read. Give it a try.

Follow the link, read the first few chapters, and see how you go.
Britni

I Made a Book Trailer was originally published in ILLUMINATION on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

It’s been a while. I’m back!

Britni here, and I am delighted to welcome you aboard the Queen Elizabeth — if only in your imagination — to share the journey that became Jane Austen Goes to Sea.

I wrote this book because I believe that inside every woman who has ever held a family together, nursed a loved one, or put her own dreams on a high shelf to gather dust, there is a secret desire for a horizon that never ends.

I was aboard the real Australian Literature Festival at Sea in 2024, sailing from Sydney to Hobart, and the magic of that Art Deco-themed ship was simply too potent to ignore. I stood on those decks, watching the interplay of authors and readers, and I understood that a ship is a perfect pressure cooker for the human heart. It is a place where the normal rules of land do not apply, and where we can briefly be whoever we wish we were.

The Call of Escape

For my protagonist, Carrie Watson, escape isn’t just a holiday; it is a survival mechanism. I wanted to write for the woman who knows the crushing weight of duty. Carrie is a talented photographer, but her world has shrunk to the four walls of her home where she cares for her ailing mother. She has “five days to live” before she must return to the beep of medical reminders and the scent of antiseptic.

I think many of us understand that specific kind of exhaustion. We love the people we care for, but we lose pieces of ourselves in the process. I wrote Carrie’s journey to explore what happens when you are suddenly given permission to be selfish, to sleep in fresh sheets you didn’t have to wash, and to look at a view that isn’t your own backyard.

The Queen Elizabeth offers her — and the reader — a floating sanctuary. I wanted to feel the grandeur of the Grand Lobby with its “gleaming chandeliers” and the “enormous peacock made of flowers”. I wanted to taste the champagne and feel the “deep, rhythmic swell of the open Pacific” as the land falls away. This book is my invitation to step out of your own life, just for a few hundred pages, and breathe the salt air of total freedom.

The Search for Truth and Emotion

But escape is only half the story. The other half is about what we find when we stop running.

I created Dr. Crispin Shrike as the perfect foil for Carrie. He is based more on the charmingly bumbling persona of Hugh Grant than any specific real-life historian, though he carries the weight of academic rigidity. Crispin believes that history is about “pedantic accuracy” and that imagination must be kept on a “short leash”. He has built a safe, predictable life, structured like an “annotated bibliography”.

The collision between Carrie and Crispin is a battle between facts and truth. I was inspired by the idea that we can know everything about a person — the dates, the events, the “buttons on the uniform” — and yet miss their soul completely. Carrie, with her photographer’s eye, looks for the “spaces between the facts”. She challenges Crispin — and the reader — to ask if we are living our lives with passion, or merely recording them.

When Carrie asks him, “Do you ever feel that the ghosts of the people you write about are disappointed in you?” she is asking the question that haunts many of us in mid-life. Are we living the brave stories we dream of? Or are we playing it safe?

A Romance of “The Spaces Between”

I didn’t want to write a fairy tale where the prince rescues the damsel and they ride off into the sunset. We are older and wiser than that. We know that life is complicated. Carrie has her mother; Crispin has a wife and children in England.

I wanted to write a romance about two “good people, trapped by their own goodness”. Their connection is profound because it is finite. They meet in the “spaces between” their real lives — in the quiet intimacy of a library during a blackout, in the haunting darkness of a punishment cell at Port Arthur, and in the moonlit privacy of a cabin balcony.

Contentment was the quiet satisfaction of a well-ordered library. Joy was this woman in his arms, setting the entire collection on fire.

These moments are “hothouse flowers,” beautiful and rare, blooming only in the specific climate of the cruise. I wrote their relationship to validate the idea that a connection doesn’t have to last a lifetime to be life-changing. As Carrie’s friend Thea says, “Don’t think of this as something you have lost. Think of it as a story you have earned”.

Other voices

I created a wealth of minor characters. Some, such as Alexander McCall Smith, are fictionalised appearances. Others, such as author Maeve Penhaligon, are flamboyant, inspirational, colourful personas who were a joy to invite onto the page.

Some are there to help Carrie along, give some flavour to the story.

Others, well, we may see more of them as time goes by and more books appear. This is just the beginning.

And, of course, that grand ship itself, she is a character and what a gracious, splendid one she is. I loved the Queen Elizabeth. The space, the grace, the no-fuss care and thoughtfulness made her a vessel for dreams and delight. I’ve tried to capture some of the feelings I felt aboard. I hope to board her again for some cruise of enchantment.

Why You Should Read This Book

I wrote Jane Austen Goes to Sea for the person who loves books. You will find cameos by the delightful Alexander McCall Smith, who believes that “decency ultimately prevails,” and discussions about why Jane Austen is the ultimate teacher of the human heart. You will sit in on writing workshops where characters discover their voices, and you will walk through the “leather-bound sanctuary” of the ship’s library.

Ultimately, this is a story about the power of art — whether it is photography, writing, or history — to help us see ourselves more clearly. By the end of the journey, Crispin learns that he cannot just be an observer; he must be “in the frame” of his own life. And Carrie realises that she isn’t just a carer; she is a storyteller.

I hope this book gives you a moment of solace, a laugh at the absurdity of seagulls stealing a romantic lunch, and a good cry at the beauty of a goodbye that is necessary but heartbreaking.

Come aboard. The gangway is open, the champagne is poured, and the sunset over Sydney Harbour is waiting to be captured. Let us navigate these uncharted waters together.

Yours in storytelling,

Britni

Links in italics are affiliates and I may earn a small amount if you follow the link and buy something. I try to recommend only products I think are great value and have enjoyed using. In this case, if I’m recommending my own book, I’m not going to pretend objectivity. I wrote it for me and I enjoyed the process!

This is actually the third novel I wrote this year but the first two – romances set in a small town — just didn’t work out. If I didn’t like them, how could I ask others to read them?

This book is on the money. I’m getting good notes from my readers. I hope you will enjoy the read.

I call this book an “anti-romance”. A love story, for sure, but don’t expect the typical beats of romance. Instead, there is passion and new beginnings.

I certainly began a new career as a proper novelist in writing this. There are more books to come after this one!
B

Dear Readers was originally published in Curated Newsletters on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Here’s how I did it

Note: this article contains AI writing and images.

Airports are liminal spaces, filled with souls in transit. I stand at the departure gate, surrounded by the hum of announcements and distant conversations. Time feels suspended here — a pause between what was and what will be.

My eyes drift and settle on her. She stands alone, a quiet presence amid the bustle. Her fingers absentmindedly trace the edge of her boarding pass, and a soft sigh escapes her lips. There’s a hint of melancholy in her gaze, as if she’s carrying a world of unspoken stories.

She reaches down and picks up a sleek black suitcase beside her — a mirror image of mine. A subtle jolt runs through me. I step forward, not wanting this thread of connection to snap.

“Excuse me,” I say softly.

She turns, eyes meeting mine. For a moment, everything else fades — the delays, the noise, the perpetual motion of the airport. It’s just us, suspended in this shared breath.

I nod toward the suitcase. “I think that might be mine.”

A flush of realization colors her cheeks. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she whispers, a shy smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. We exchange suitcases, our fingers brushing lightly against each other. The touch is brief but resonates deeply, like a single note echoing in a grand hall.

We linger for a heartbeat, a silent acknowledgement of this fleeting connection. Words hover on the brink of being spoken, but the overhead announcement pulls us back to reality.

She offers a gentle nod before turning away, merging back into the stream of travelers. I watch her go, a wistful ache settling in — a recognition of a moment that’s slipped through my fingers.

As I board my flight, I carry more than just my luggage. I carry the imprint of her presence, the echo of her sigh, the warmth of that brief touch. In a place defined by departures and arrivals, it’s these small intersections of lives that remind me of our shared humanity.

Perhaps we’re all just travelers passing through, our paths crossing in the most unexpected ways. And maybe, in these passing moments, there’s a quiet beauty that lingers — a subtle chord that adds depth to the melody of our lives.

How did I write that? I didn’t.

How did I get here? Well, I read an article by Ben Ulansey, who is a serious thinker I admire. His writing is entertaining, philosophical, lyrical, and deep. I love it.

I read his latest post:

Why AI Writing Is Bland

Now, Ben and I have had this discussion before and we disagree. That’s okay. I’m well in the minority but I have some odd ideas due to my upbringing in what we weren’t allowed to call a cult.

There’s a word in Ben’s story I don’t accept. He says:

So maybe it shouldn’t come as a surprise that when language learning models are prompted to write essays, there’s an almost comical predictability to the tone and vocabulary at play. They open without soul and talk about the subjects they will “dive” into. They type loftily about “weaving tapestries” and “exploring ideas.” They wax a phony poetic about the topics they “delve into” and the “mosaics” they each represent.

That word is “soul”. I don’t believe there is such a thing. We can ask medical science to give us a bodily location in an anatomical textbook. (I once asked a doctor, and he told me to look under my right foot. Humph.)

Somewhere amongst bones and muscles? Hidden in the guts between spleen and gall?

If there is such an entity so intimately connected to how we think about ourselves, then surely it must be in the brain, right?

So, um, what is it?

If we look at the Wikipedia article on Soul, we get about two thirds of the way through a long article before we even get to science, having traversed a forest of religion and philosophy and other nonsense.

Science cannot find a physical soul.

According to Julien Musolino, the scientific consensus holds that the mind is a complex machine that operates on the same physical laws as all other objects in the universe. According to Musolino, there is currently no scientific evidence whatsoever to support the existence of soul. — Wikipedia

Neuroscience, the article goes on, understands mental phenomena as arising solely by physical activities within the brain.

I can go along with that. The soul is a kind of thoughtstuff, an abstraction we use to grasp something we cannot perceive or understand directly. Like all thought, it is made up of the tiny movements of electricity and chemicals through the complex arrangement of neurones inside our skull.

But surely, if we have a soul generated by our thinking machinery then there must be an analogue in abstract constructs generated within other complex thinking machines.

Realistically, thought is all abstractions. There’s nothing in our brains but grey sludge. No circles and triangle, no images, no trees or spaceships or mugs of coffee. If we think about these things, we are thinking in tokens and pointers.

Perhaps, Ben, the word you’re really looking for is not “soul” but “magic”.

Ben holds, and I can understand his argument, is that we as humans have an understanding of deeper things that no hunks of silicon and plastic can match. They don’t possess life — another thing I don’t believe in — and cannot understand things. Like a dictionary — or an online encyclopaedia — it’s all immobile definitions. Words and more words with the occasional diagram, presented for we superior beings to truly grok.

Ben would say, I think, that even if AI text rises above the bland banality of “Ten Ways to Improve Your Well-Being” or “Six Best Detective Movies” any sophistication or beauty is an illusion, copied from real human beings who understand these things deeply and honestly.

Personally, I don’t think it matters. Milton, Browning, Lao-Tzu are no longer with us. Their works of beauty and wisdom are just words in a row, and their living thoughts run through our own minds through reading their words and analysing them in our own thought processes.

If I am stirred by a set of words, does it matter who or what produced it? Shakespeare or a million monkeys on a million typewriters or ChatGPT o1-preview — the rose would smell as sweetly in my mind.

The Great Conversation

I fired up ChatGPT o1-preview (great name, hey?).

First question

Britni: We’re going to write a story together. I want you to act as an Australian writer of travel and erotica but we’re just going to write a quick story of a travel disaster. Okay?

ChatGPT: Thought for 12 seconds

Alright, let’s dive into it.

Title: Lost in the Outback

I was winding my way through the heart of the Australian Outback, the vast red landscape stretching infinitely under the scorching sun. My battered old Land Rover hummed along the dusty track, each mile taking me deeper into isolation. The allure of untouched horizons had always called to me, and this trip was meant to be a soul-searching escape.

As dusk began to paint the sky with hues of burnt orange and purple, the engine coughed and sputtered before falling silent. I was stranded — no phone signal, no passing cars, just the silent embrace of the wilderness.

I shrugged off the initial panic and set up camp for the night, figuring I’d sort it out come morning. The stars overhead were a dazzling spectacle, and despite the predicament, a part of me reveled in the raw beauty of it all.

Morning arrived with a blazing sun and the harsh reality that the engine wasn’t going to revive itself. With limited water and no spare parts, I decided to trek toward a roadhouse I remembered passing earlier — a risky move, but my only option.

Hours turned into an exhausting blur. The heat was relentless, and the landscape offered no mercy. Just when my legs felt like they’d give way, I spotted a plume of dust in the distance — the telltale sign of an approaching vehicle.

A rugged truck pulled up beside me, driven by a weathered stockman with a kind smile. “Looks like you could use a lift,” he said with a wink.

Relief washed over me. Climbing into the truck, I couldn’t help but laugh at the sheer misadventure of it all. The stockman handed me a cold bottle of water, and as we drove toward the nearest town, we swapped stories — his of life on the land, mine of chasing freedom.

What began as a travel disaster became an unexpected encounter that reminded me why I loved the road — the unpredictability, the raw connections, and the stories that come from the unplanned.

There you have it — a quick tale of a travel mishap in the Aussie Outback.

Second question

Britni: Mmmm, I’m not sure I want a story just yet. I’d like to write a shorter story about a mistake in an airport revolving around three people. It will be glances and sighs and a few words to show one person making a mistake and recovering. Can you give me an outline for somthing just a few paragraphs long?

ChatGPT: Thought for 12 seconds

Certainly! Here’s an outline for a short story involving three people at an airport, focusing on glances, sighs, and a few words to illustrate one person making a mistake and recovering.

Title: Terminal Encounters

1. Setting the Scene:

Location: Sydney International Airport.

Character: Ella, a travel writer with a penchant for adventure.

Situation: She’s waiting at the gate for a flight to Tokyo, sipping coffee, and lost in thought.

2. The First Glance:

Across the crowded terminal, Ella notices a man (Liam) glancing her way.

They exchange fleeting eye contact; a subtle spark ignites.

A third person (Sophie) sits nearby, absorbed in a novel.

3. The Mistake:

Ella’s flight is announced; she hastily gathers her belongings.

In her rush, she picks up Sophie’s identical backpack instead of her own.

Sophie, unaware, continues reading as Ella walks away.

4. Realization and Sighs:

In line at the boarding gate, Ella feels the weight is off.

She opens the bag slightly — sees unfamiliar items: a sketchbook, a scarf.

A deep sigh escapes her; anxiety flushes her cheeks.

5. The Crossing Paths:

Turning to rectify her mistake, she nearly bumps into Liam, who is now behind her in line.

A shared glance, both step aside awkwardly.

He notices her distress, raises an eyebrow in silent inquiry.

6. Recovery:

Ella manages a few words, “Picked up the wrong bag…”

Liam nods, “Happens to the best of us.”

He gestures, “Need a hand finding the owner?”

7. Resolution:

They walk back toward the seating area.

Sophie looks up as they approach, realization dawning.

Bags are exchanged with relieved smiles and murmured apologies.

8. Closing Moments:

Glances and Slight Smiles are exchanged among the three.

As Ella turns to leave, Liam extends a business card, “In case you need a guide in Tokyo.”

Ella accepts it with a soft smile, “Perhaps I will.”

This outline uses minimal dialogue, focusing on glances, sighs, and brief interactions to tell the story of Ella’s mistake and her recovery, all within the bustling backdrop of an airport. The encounter leads to a potential new connection, adding a touch of serendipity to her journey.

Third question

Britni: Yes, that’s good. But way too long. I’m thinking of an encounter lasting just a few seconds.

ChatGPT: Thought for 11 seconds

Understood! Here’s a very brief story involving three people at an airport, focusing on an encounter that lasts just a few seconds.

Title: A Fleeting Mistake

At the crowded departure gate, Lucy fumbled with her boarding pass and passport, her mind preoccupied. She sighed, glancing at the clock — her flight was boarding soon. In her distraction, she picked up a sleek black suitcase beside her, mistaking it for her own.

As she turned, a man with a similar suitcase noticed and stepped forward. “Excuse me,” he said softly.

Their eyes met briefly. He pointed to the luggage in her hand. “I think that’s mine.”

A flush of embarrassment warmed her cheeks. “Oh! I’m sorry,” she replied, quickly swapping the bags.

They shared a small, understanding smile. Just then, an airport staff member approached the man with a question, diverting his attention.

Lucy exhaled, a mix of chagrin and amusement. In those few seconds, a simple mistake had led to a human connection — however brief — amid the airport’s impersonal hustle.

I hope this short story captures the quick, momentary encounter you had in mind!

Fourth question

Britni: Love it. Now can we rewrite this as a streeam of consciousness narrative in Liam’s mind?

ChatGPT: Thought for 10 seconds

Certainly! Here’s the story rewritten as a stream of consciousness from Liam’s perspective.

Title: A Fleeting Mistake — Liam’s Perspective

Another delayed flight. Just my luck. I shift from one foot to the other, feeling the ache from a day of meetings. The departure gate is a sea of restless faces. I glance at my watch — boarding should’ve started ten minutes ago.

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice her. She’s fumbling with her boarding pass and passport, a sigh escaping her lips. She looks as weary as I feel. Her eyes dart to the clock, and I wonder where she’s headed.

Wait, is she picking up my suitcase? That sleek black one with the scuffed handle — definitely mine. She’s distracted, probably didn’t notice. Should I say something? Don’t want to embarrass her, but I need my luggage.

“Excuse me,” I say softly, stepping forward.

She turns, eyes wide meeting mine — startled. There’s a moment where neither of us speaks. I gesture to the suitcase in her hand. “I think that’s mine.”

A flush rises to her cheeks. “Oh! I’m sorry,” she murmurs, quickly exchanging the bag for her own.

We share a brief smile — her embarrassed, me amused. Something warm flickers inside me. Funny how a small mix-up can spark a connection, however fleeting.

Before I can think of anything else to say, an airport staff member approaches me, asking about my delayed flight. I answer mechanically, but my thoughts are still with her.

She’s already turning away, a subtle exhale, a hint of a smile playing on her lips. I watch as she blends back into the crowd. Did that just happen?

I chuckle to myself. In the grand chaos of the airport, a simple mistake becomes a moment worth noting. Maybe in another setting, I would’ve introduced myself. But life moves quickly here.

The announcement for boarding finally blares overhead. Time to go. I grip my suitcase — double-checking it’s actually mine this time — and make my way to the gate.

Perhaps our paths will cross again. Or perhaps some moments are perfect because they’re brief.

I hope this captures the brief encounter from Liam’s internal perspective, emphasizing his thoughts and feelings during those few seconds.

Fifth question?

Britni: Beautiful. Thank you!

ChatGPT: Thought for 6 seconds

You’re most welcome! I’m glad you enjoyed it. If there’s anything else I can help you with, feel free to ask!

Sixth question

Britni: I wonder — this may be a big ask — but can you think about this story and reword it so that is the same length or shorter but has aspects of deeper meaning and connection? Something subtle and beautiful that will make me sigh.

ChatGPT: Thought for 9 seconds

Certainly! Here’s a reimagined version of the story, aiming for deeper meaning and subtle connections.

Title: Passing Moments

Airports are liminal spaces, filled with souls in transit. I stand at the departure gate, surrounded by the hum of announcements and distant conversations. Time feels suspended here — a pause between what was and what will be.

My eyes drift and settle on her. She stands alone, a quiet presence amid the bustle. Her fingers absentmindedly trace the edge of her boarding pass, and a soft sigh escapes her lips. There’s a hint of melancholy in her gaze, as if she’s carrying a world of unspoken stories.

She reaches down and picks up a sleek black suitcase beside her — a mirror image of mine. A subtle jolt runs through me. I step forward, not wanting this thread of connection to snap.

“Excuse me,” I say softly.

She turns, eyes meeting mine. For a moment, everything else fades — the delays, the noise, the perpetual motion of the airport. It’s just us, suspended in this shared breath.

I nod toward the suitcase. “I think that might be mine.”

A flush of realization colors her cheeks. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she whispers, a shy smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. We exchange suitcases, our fingers brushing lightly against each other. The touch is brief but resonates deeply, like a single note echoing in a grand hall.

We linger for a heartbeat, a silent acknowledgement of this fleeting connection. Words hover on the brink of being spoken, but the overhead announcement pulls us back to reality.

She offers a gentle nod before turning away, merging back into the stream of travelers. I watch her go, a wistful ache settling in — a recognition of a moment that’s slipped through my fingers.

As I board my flight, I carry more than just my luggage. I carry the imprint of her presence, the echo of her sigh, the warmth of that brief touch. In a place defined by departures and arrivals, it’s these small intersections of lives that remind me of our shared humanity.

Perhaps we’re all just travelers passing through, our paths crossing in the most unexpected ways. And maybe, in these passing moments, there’s a quiet beauty that lingers — a subtle chord that adds depth to the melody of our lives.

I hope this version brings the deeper meaning and subtle beauty you were seeking.

Seventh and charm

Britni: Oh, that is beautiful. Thank you!

ChatGPT: Thought for 4 seconds

You’re very welcome! I’m thrilled that you found the story beautiful. If there’s anything else I can assist you with, just let me know!

I learned a new word today

That word is “liminal”

/ˈlɪmɪnl/

adjective

technical

1. occupying a position at, or on both sides of, a boundary or threshold.
“I was in the liminal space between past and present”

2. relating to a transitional or initial stage of a process.
“that liminal period when a child is old enough to begin following basic rules but is still too young to do so consistently”

Quite frankly, I am amazed at the sophistication of these systems. As a frequent passager in these spaces of airports and connections, I understand the way that an airport terminal can be so described. I just wouldn’t have described it that way. ChatGPT found a better word.

The encounter described by a computer is touching. Anything but bland and predictable. I think that for most English-speaking people, unless I marked it as AI, they wouldn’t pick it.

And that brings me to another point. People say they can identify AI writing at a glance. Yes, of course, but only the writing they can identify as AI. The flip side is that if they don’t pick it as AI, they don’t think it is AI.

And, honestly, does it matter? They are just words in a row. The effect they have on a reader is what counts, not where they came from.

AI is in a liminal space here. We are trying to understand our relationship with our own creations in these final moments before they surpass us.

And, just between you and me, I think that the story produced by ChatGPT is better than anything I could create. Certainly better than I could produce in 60 seconds.

Britni

First published on Substack on 18 September 2024

I Learned a New Word Today

I Learned a New Word Today was originally published in Lampshade of ILLUMINATION on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.