Well, I had to try. What’s the ChatGPT version of Trent Lewin? Would it tell me something about myself, especially if it’s lifting content from my online presence? What style would an AI ascribe to a writer of very little renown, and what would I learn from this experience?
I tried three times. And I’m presenting all three tries. The first one makes me out to be a detective or something, which is so interesting. And then the AI shorted and gave me an error before the story could be finished. The second one is trying to be weird, but comes off as very cliché. The third one feels introspective, like someone has learned something from a tree, but it’s not exactly a profound message. The first two have me as a character. The third seems to be an attempt to write like me, but without me as a character. I find that distinction interesting.
I don’t write like any of these, at least I hope I don’t. They’re not very good, in my opinion, but someone might make the case that this is better than the dribble I typically slap at the word processor. In that, they might be right.
Conclusion based on a small-small sample set: AI hasn’t taught me anything about myself or prescribed a new direction for my writing just yet. Carry on, Mr. Lewin. Carry on.
ChatGPT Attempt No. 1:
Trent Lewin sat in his small office, surrounded by stacks of paper and unfinished work. The room was dimly lit, with only a small desk lamp providing a dull glow. Trent sighed and rubbed his tired eyes, wondering how he was going to finish everything on time.
As he sat there, he heard a knock on the door. He stood up and walked over to answer it, wondering who could possibly be visiting him at this late hour.
When he opened the door, he was surprised to see a woman standing there. She was tall and slender, with long brown hair and piercing green eyes. She wore a black dress that hugged her curves in all the right places, and Trent couldn’t help but feel a flutter in his chest at the sight of her.
“Hello,” she said, her voice smooth and sultry. “My name is Amelia, and I need your help.”
Trent raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “What can I do for you?”
“It’s a private matter,” she said, stepping closer to him. “May I come in?”
Trent hesitated for a moment, then nodded and stepped aside to let her pass. She walked past him and into the office, glancing around at the messy stacks of paper.
“It looks like you have a lot of work to do,” she said, turning to face him. “But I’m afraid my matter is urgent.”
Trent sat down at his desk and motioned for her to take a seat. “What can I do to help you?”
“It’s my husband,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “He’s been acting strange lately, and I’m worried about him.”
Trent leaned forward, his interest piqued. “What do you mean, strange?”
“He’s been disappearing for hours at a time, and when he comes back, he’s different,” she said. “He’s distant, and he doesn’t seem to recognize me sometimes. I think he’s having an affair, or maybe even involved in something illegal.”
Trent nodded, understanding. “I see. Well, I can certainly look into it for you.”
Amelia reached into her purse and pulled out a wad of cash, laying it on the desk in front of him. “I’m willing to pay whatever it takes to find out the truth.”
Trent raised an eyebrow at the sight of the money, then leaned back in his chair. “I’ll do my best. But I have to warn you, sometimes the truth is hard to handle.”
Amelia nodded, her face determined. “I can handle it. Just find out what’s going on with my husband.”
Trent nodded, then stood up to escort her to the door. As she walked out, he couldn’t help but feel a sense of excitement. This was exactly the kind of case he loved, full of intrigue and mystery
ChatGPT Attempt No. 2:
As the sun began to set over the rolling hills of rural Ontario, Trent Lewin drove his truck down a narrow dirt road, the tires kicking up dust behind him. He had received a call from a frantic farmer, who claimed that his cows had been disappearing one by one, and that something was out there in the fields at night.
Trent was skeptical, but he needed the work. He had been living off the grid for the past few months, taking odd jobs here and there to pay for his meager existence. He wasn’t sure what he was running from, but he knew he couldn’t stay in one place for too long.
As he approached the farm, he saw the farmer standing by his barn, waving him down. Trent parked his truck and got out, the farmer rushing up to him.
“I’m telling you, something’s out there,” the farmer said, his eyes wide with fear. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Trent nodded, trying to hide his skepticism. He followed the farmer into the barn, where the cows were milling about, lowing softly.
“Look at this,” the farmer said, pointing to a cow that was lying on the ground. “Her udder’s been drained, like something sucked all the milk out of her.”
Trent examined the cow, noting the strange circular marks on its skin. He had seen something like this before, but he couldn’t quite place it.
That night, Trent set up his camping gear in the field, watching and waiting. He had his camera at the ready, hoping to catch whatever it was that was preying on the farmer’s cows.
As the night wore on, Trent grew tired, his eyes drooping. He was about to give up and head back to his truck when he heard a low rumble in the distance. He looked up, seeing a strange light in the sky, pulsing and shifting.
Trent grabbed his camera, snapping as many photos as he could. As the light drew closer, he could make out a strange craft hovering just above the trees. He watched in amazement as a beam of light shot down from the craft, illuminating the field.
And then, just as suddenly as it had appeared, the craft was gone. Trent was left standing in the field, his heart racing, his mind spinning with questions.
He spent the rest of the night poring over his photos, trying to make sense of what he had seen. And when he finally fell asleep, he dreamed of strange, otherworldly beings, their faces contorted in pain and fear.
In the morning, Trent packed up his gear and headed back to the farmer’s house. He showed him the photos, hoping to find some answers.
The farmer studied the photos for a moment, then looked up at Trent.
“I don’t know what that is,” he said. “But I know one thing for sure. Whatever it is, it’s not from around here.”
ChatGPT Attempt No. 3:
As the sun began to set, a lone figure trudged through the thick underbrush of the forest. He was a man of few words, but his determination was evident in every step he took. The branches of the trees brushed against his face, and the sound of his footsteps echoed through the woods.
As he walked, memories flooded his mind. Memories of his childhood, of the love he had lost, and of the life he had left behind. He had come to this place seeking solace, seeking to escape the pain that had plagued him for so long.
Finally, he came to a clearing in the forest. In the center of the clearing stood a large oak tree, its branches stretching high into the sky. The man walked towards it, and as he approached, he saw that someone had carved a message into the trunk of the tree.
“Remember who you are,” the message read.
The man paused for a moment, staring at the words. They spoke to him in a way that he could not explain. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, and as he exhaled, he felt the weight of his past lifting from his shoulders.
He opened his eyes, and for the first time in a long while, he saw the world around him with new eyes. The trees were greener, the sky bluer, and the birds sang a sweeter song. He felt a sense of peace that he had not felt in years.
He turned to leave the clearing, knowing that he had found what he had been searching for. As he walked away, he looked back at the oak tree one last time. He smiled, knowing that he would never forget who he was again.
7 thoughts on “The ChatGPT Version of Trent Lewin: A Case Study”
What specific question did you ask it?
Write a short story in Trent Lewin style
And yet it specifically named you a character in two of the efforts. I don’t think AI quite has this yet.
Agreed, that was weird but by the third try it seemed to catch on.
Meanwhile … my last experiment was geared towards a very well known author, Stephen King, and neither of the versions was very accurate.
I see a small bit of you in #3, but other than that … yeah, these aren’t stories you would write.
I’d die of humiliation if I wrote these.