And Now, For My One Hundred and Fifty First Story...

This is story number 151 on vocal for me. I didn't set out to mark it in any special way, its just, when I came here to copy this from my word processor into vocal, I noticed and thought to myself "well that seems apt." Then I thought to myself "why exactly? Apt how?" to which I answered "Because this is a story about process, and one should reflect on process at times like story number 151." "Oh," I said, in response, "Oh, but now I've made me feel like I need to reflect with wisdom and draw links and lessons and make it all look like I have been wonderfully and deliberately clever. If I am reflecting on process to mark my 151st story and all?" "Don't be daft," said I. "It was just a bit of fun."

For reasons that escape me, I became intrigued of late, not as to whether AI could write me a story that I thought was human, but whether I could write a story AI thought was AI. I decided to set about this in a spare moment, having ventured into an offering under "Latest Stories" to be immediately confronted by the perennial settlement of Everwood, that town for all seasons which sits by the main highway in AIland. Was it also a TV show? I feel like there may have been a TV show called Everwood which I sometimes watched when I had a migraine and needed my brain gently stroking with numbing cream.

I digress. Spurred, nay, inspired, by this story of challenges overcome (I didn't read it, but I am assuming challenges were overcome, though not, clearly, the challenge of engaging authentically with one's emotional world) I placed my fingers on the keyboard and began my own exploration of predictable phraseology and preordained linguistic pairings. The results, you will find below:

In the quaint town of Everwood, nestled in the wooded valley on either side of the babbling stream, there lived an old woman named Jane. Jane was a proud woman, with a wrinkled face and friendly eyes, and she lived in a cute house by the water.

Jane was happy in her home, where she had lived all her life, but she had one worry. Jane had a very beautiful daughter named Lucy, whom she loved very much. Lucy’s golden hair and sapphire blue eyes were the envy of every girl in Everwood, but still Lucy spent all of her time alone by the gurgling stream or beneath the towering trees.

One day, Jane watched Lucy playing alone in the meadow, running in the long, waving grass. Though the little girl was smiling, Jane worried that Lucy felt lonely, and vowed to do something to make it better. Not far from Everwood, a wise woman was rumoured to live in a little cabin, deep in the forest. Jane decided to go to her and ask for help.

The next morning, Jane set out along the winding road into the forest. The birds were singing and squirrels ran along the branches above as she walked. Jane was not afraid of the forest, as so many of the residents of Everwood were, for she saw the wonder in nature and knew no harm would come to her.

Suddenly, Jane came to a clearing in the trees. In the middle of the clearing, a wooden cabin stood, with purple foxgloves and bright poppies in a little garden by the front door. Jane refused to be mastered by her fear and bravely approached the blue door, knocking three times. Very soon, the wise woman opened the door, peering at Jane from behind thick spectacles, and asking her how she could help.

Jane was very afraid, but she explained her worrying situation to the wise woman. The wise woman nodded, understanding, and invited Jane to sit in her garden while she prepared a remedy. While Jane waited, she admired the beautiful flowers and watched as the bees gathered nectar to take to the hive. It wasn’t long before the wise woman returned, and she carried in her arms a bag made of crimson cloth. Within, a poultice of herbs and spices cast an aroma that made Jane feel sleepy and lightheaded. The wise woman told Jane that the poultice would cure her haemorrhoids as well as her daughter’s loneliness and Jane felt her heart swell with gratitude.

Quickly, Jane returned to Everwood, stopping only to eat magic mushrooms and dance with the fairies along the way. When she arrived home the sun was setting, and Lucy was asleep in the armchair beside the fire. Quietly, Jane applied the poultice, and then she laid the child in her bed, tucking the blankets around her small shoulders.

The following day, Lucy went out to school, skipping down the path as usual. Later, Jane was astonished to see all the children in Everwood returning, dancing as they came along the road. From that day forward, Lucy was never lonely again.

What I would LIKE to be saying at this point is "Go ahead, run it through an AI detector!" But I can spare you the time.

At first, things went well. The first three or four paragraphs were identified as AI or a significant proportion AI. I was elated. I felt the mastery of my human craft coursing through my veins. I was able to utilise my skill and experience to write like I wasn't even a writer! Surely the greatest achievement of literature!

Then I must have got a little cocky. And after that, I got a little facetious. And then, really really bored. And AI KNEW damn it, AI knew. The bottom half - human text, or human text with a very small percentage of AI assistance. Gah! Stupid Woman!

I proclaimed this out loud. "Stupid Woman." My daughter, who often claims worthlessness, idiocy or lack of deserving in the face of minor errors looked at me sternly from the other sofa. "Krubby" she said, because why would my children ever call me something pleasingly cutesy, "Krubby, you're not stupid just because you cant write like AI." She meant it nicely, I'm sure. I agreed with her and stored this up for next time she lays claim to gross inferiority after stroking the cat in a way displeasing to the beast. On a side note, I very rarely call myself stupid since giving birth to my children, not because I have ceased to have moments of stupidity, but because I don't want to model for them such punitive self talk, and what is more, I don't think "stupid" is a very valuable word applied to a multifaceted human being. This was a rare slip and was actually a statement of frustration as I had just remembered I had something much more important to do that I had not done, in favour of attempting to write a story emulating the stories composed by a technology I deplore the use of when it comes to writing stories. If the word stupid has any validity, this would perhaps be its moment.

To the matter at hand. AI knew. One detector seemed actually pleased to let me know that my essay was not going to have me up for cheating. I was gutted. Disproportionately gutted. But I am not a stupid woman, on balance, and I decided to waste no further time finessing my faux story. What gave me away? I fear it was emotion that revealed my hand. I went about my first three or four paragraphs procedurally, an exercise in mimicry, though I was careful not to refer to any source material lest it become copying. And then - "oh the cleverness of me! Tee hee, how far can I push, you dumb machine, think you can play me, do you? You know what? Doing this badly is pointless and doing it well is boring, I'm just going to finish."

There are things machines do much, much better than us. Vigilance and consistency up against our fatiguing brains and impatience. And they know it. They know us when they see us. Us human beings and our unreliable, wandering, beautiful, playful brains.

I'd say they'd probably be jealous if they could be, but they know they'll get there in the end.