I Finally Gave In to ChatGPT

With the coming of ChatGPT4, I decided it was finally time I checked it out to see what all the fuss is about. I signed up to the earlier version, and set about putting it through its paces. Here's what I requested, what I got, and what I thought.

I needed to enter a topic I'm familiar with, so I could see how the ChatGPT results compared with my own perception of the subject. With that in mind, my first entry was:

Create a poem about alcohol, in the style of Charles Bukowski.

I watched, as letters turned into words on the screen, and in under a minute, I became the owner of this piece:

The poem

The bottle calls out to me,

Its amber liquid a seduction

A temptation, an escape

From life's mundane corruption

I pour myself a glass,

Feeling its fiery embrace

The burning sensation,

A rush that I can't replace

The world fades away

In a blur of drunken ecstasy

My mind numbed, my senses dulled

I'm lost in my own fantasy

The bottle is my friend,

A constant companion by my side

Through the good times and the bad

It's always there to provide

But with each passing night,

I feel my grip on reality slip

The bottle takes control

And I'm just along for the trip

I know I should let go,

Find a way to break free

But the bottle holds me tight

And it's all I can see

So I'll raise my glass once more,

And let the alcohol take hold

For in this moment,

I feel alive, I feel bold

But when the morning comes,

And I'm left with the regret

I'll wonder if it's all worth it

Or if it's time to forget.

End

I find this poem very amateurish, almost contrived. In some parts, it reads like a birthday card rhyme, and I'm sure Bukowski would disapprove. To delve further, I changed the request to:

Create a blank-verse poem about alcohol, in the style of Charles Bukowski. 

Here's what I got. 

The blank verse

The bottle sat there, mocking me with its amber glow

A siren's call, tempting me to take a swig

To drown my sorrows, forget my woes

And sink into a warm and hazy oblivion

But I knew the price I'd pay, the toll it would take

The hangovers, the regrets, the shattered dreams

I'd seen it all before, lived it every day

A prisoner of my own addiction, it seemed

So I poured it out, watched it drain away

The golden elixir that once held me tight

And I stood there, feeling both free and afraid

Wondering if I'd done what was truly right

For alcohol is a devil with a silver tongue

Whispering promises of joy and escape

But in the end, it leaves you broken and undone

A victim of its merciless grip and cruel fate

End

This is better. It has its moments, but still there is that sense of contrivance, particularly the line, Wondering if I'd done what was truly right. Ugh!  

So, I wasn't over impressed with the poetry offered by ChatGPT, and I guess my plan to cause a sensation with a book of 50 frank, insightful poems about alcohol, written in two weeks, will have to wait.

Finally, I requested the following:

Create a 300 word essay on alcohol, in the style of Charles Bukowski.

The essay

Alcohol. A friend and a foe. A seductive mistress and a merciless enemy. Charles Bukowski knew her well, intimately. He wrote of her with both admiration and disdain, as he struggled with his own addiction and the consequences that came with it.

For Bukowski, alcohol was both an escape and a source of inspiration. It gave him the courage to face the world, to confront his demons, and to write the words that flowed from his soul. But it also left him in a haze, a drunken stupor that clouded his judgment and left him vulnerable to the demons that lurked within.

In his writing, Bukowski captured the paradoxical nature of alcohol. He wrote of the joy and the pain, the highs and the lows. He wrote of the laughter and the tears, the love and the hate. He wrote of the moments of clarity and the moments of confusion. He wrote of the beauty and the ugliness, the light and the darkness.

Bukowski was not afraid to confront the realities of his addiction, the toll it took on his health, his relationships, and his writing. He wrote of the loneliness, the desperation, the regret. He wrote of the moments when he wanted to quit, when he wanted to walk away from alcohol and never look back.

But he also wrote of the moments when he could not resist her pull, when he found himself reaching for another drink, and another, and another. He wrote of the moments when he felt alive, when he felt invincible, when he felt like he could conquer the world.

In the end, Bukowski's relationship with alcohol was a complex one, one that defies easy categorization. It was both a source of joy and a source of pain, a friend and a foe. It was a part of him, and he was a part of it. And in his writing, he captured that complexity, that contradiction, that humanity.

End

This is much better. It went a bit off-topic, as I'd asked for an essay on alcohol, and instead I got a biography on Bukowski. But I have to say, I'd be fairly happy had I written that.

For me, though, the joy is in the writing: filling a blank page with narrative that is rich in imagery, metaphor, and the unexpected turn of phrase. I don't care how good AI-assisted writing becomes, I'd still rather spend a half-hour tearing my hair out as I search for a word that is just right, or rewriting a passage a dozen times until I'm happy with it. There's no application around that can replicate the pleasure of overcoming those obstacles.