Elizabeth Ann West and Stacey Anderson wrote two 17,000-word women’s fiction novellas in 21.25 hours from start to finish using AI models. First, they spent three hours brainstorming the books and multiple additional hours making outlines and character lists to prompt the AI model. Then they worked with the AI to generate and edit the material into final form.
West says the process took less than 10 to 15 minutes per scene; the first scene shown below in its final version (1,695 words) was generated in 15 minutes. The cost: fractions of a penny. West says, “I think authors need to know this, even if they want to say the final writing totally sucks. It’s genre fiction and made both of us happy.”
AI-generated original
I stand in the funeral home’s foyer, my black dress feeling too tight, too constricting. It’s as if the fabric is trying to squeeze the air from my lungs, but I know it’s just the grief. The anger. The overwhelming sense that I’m alone in this, despite the small gathering of people here to pay their respects to my mother.
Charlie, my beautiful, strong daughter, stands beside me, her hand gently resting on my arm. She’s trying to comfort me, even though I know she’s struggling to make sense of her own feelings. At fourteen, she’s too young to have lost her grandmother, too young to see her mother falling apart.
I glance around the room, taking in the sparse crowd. There’s Mrs. Johnson, our neighbor, who always seemed to have a casserole ready when Mom was too sick to cook. And there’s Nurse Laura, one of the hospice nurses who cared for Mom in her final days. She gives me a sympathetic smile, and I try to return it, but my lips feel like they’re made of stone.
Tyler, my half-brother, approaches me, Kayla trailing behind him. “Jen, we need to talk about Mom’s wishes,” he says, his voice low and urgent.
I shake my head, not ready to deal with the reality of the will. “Not now, Tyler. I can’t… I just can’t.”
He opens his mouth to argue, but Kayla places a hand on his arm, silencing him. I’m grateful for her intervention, even if I don’t quite understand their relationship. They’ve been married for a few years now, but I still feel like I hardly know my sister-in-law.
Charlie leans in close, her voice soft. “Mom, there aren’t many people here. Do you think… do you think Grandma knew how loved she was?”
My heart clenches at her words, and I wrap an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. “Of course she did, sweetie. She knew. It’s just… it’s hard for people to show up sometimes, even when they care.”
But even as I say the words, I feel the frustration bubbling up inside me. Where are all the Barnes? Where are the people who should be here, supporting us, honoring my mother’s memory? I scan the room again, hoping to see more familiar faces, but there’s no one.
The preacher approaches me, his kind eyes filled with sympathy. “Jennifer, I think it’s time to start the service. I don’t believe we should wait any longer.”
I nod, swallowing past the lump in my throat. “You’re right. Let’s… let’s do this.”
As we make our way into the chapel, I feel Charlie’s hand slip into mine, and I squeeze it gently. We’ll get through this together, my little girl and I. We have to. Mom would want us to be strong, to lean on each other.
But as I take my seat in the front pew, my eyes drift to the back of the room, and my heart nearly stops. There, sitting in the last row, is a face I never expected to see again. A face that brings back a flood of memories, both good and bad.
My father, David Holland, is here. And suddenly, I’m not sure if I’m strong enough to face what lies ahead.
Second version with instructions for editing
West and Johnson asked the AI to expand anywhere a character was named to generate a second version, as seen below. The shaded boxes show AI instructions the authors added to generate the final version.
I stand in the funeral home’s foyer, my black dress feeling too tight, too constricting. It’s as if the fabric is trying to squeeze the air from my lungs, but I know it’s just the grief. The anger. The overwhelming sense that I’m alone in this, despite the small gathering of people here to pay their respects to my mother.
[add dialogue from someone expressing condolences at the funeral]
Charlie, my beautiful, strong daughter, stands beside me, her hand gently resting on my arm. At fourteen, she looks so grown up in her somber black dress and low heels, her chestnut hair pulled back in a neat ponytail. She’s trying to comfort me, even though I know she’s struggling to make sense of her own feelings.
“Mom, are you okay?” Charlie asks softly, her blue eyes filled with concern.
I force a smile. “I’m hanging in there, sweetie. It’s just…hard.”
She nods, understanding. “I miss Grandma already.”
“Me too, Charlie. Me too.” I squeeze her hand.
I glance around the sparsely populated room, taking in the handful of attendees. There’s Mrs. Johnson, our nosy neighbor from down the street. She’s wearing a garish floral dress that looks more appropriate for a Hawaiian luau than a funeral. She spots us and makes a beeline over, her face contorted in an exaggerated mask of sympathy.
“Jennifer, Charlotte, I’m so sorry for your loss,” Mrs. Johnson says, pulling me into a suffocating hug that reeks of mothballs and Chanel No. 5. She holds on for an uncomfortably long time before finally releasing me. “If there’s anything at all I can do, you just let me know. I have a casserole in the freezer I can pop over later.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Johnson. That’s very kind of you,” I say politely, even though the thought of her tuna noodle surprise makes my stomach churn.
“You know, I remember when your mother first moved in down the street. Must have been, oh, fifteen years ago now. I told her, I said, ‘Patricia, you just holler if you need anything.’ And you know what? She never did. Not once. Always had to do everything herself, that one.” Mrs. Johnson shakes her head ruefully.
“That sounds like Mom,” I agree with a wistful smile. “She was pretty independent.”
“Well, I best be going. We’ll talk later.” Mrs. Johnson gives Charlie a lipstick-smeared kiss on the cheek before tottering away on her sensible pumps. She calls over her shoulder, “Holler if you need anything.”
[add in a reaction between Jennifer and Charlie that’s whispered, a little snarky]
Nurse Laura approaches next, her kind eyes radiating sympathy. She gives me a gentle hug. “Jennifer, I’m so sorry. Your mother was a special lady. It was a privilege to help care for her these last few months.”
“Thank you for everything you did, Laura. I don’t know how we would have managed without you and the hospice team.” I blink back tears, remembering how tenderly Laura had bathed and dressed Mom in her final days when the cancer had robbed her of her dignity.
“She’s at peace now,” Laura assures me, patting my arm. “If you ever need to talk, I’m here.” She presses a business card into my hand before moving on to speak with Charlie. I flip it over to see a phone number for a grief counselor. As if I haven’t been grieving my mother for over a year already, now I should get some help? Still, I roll my eyes and tuck it into my handbag.
Tyler, my half-brother, walks over with Kayla trailing behind him. He looks uncomfortable in his ill-fitting suit, tugging at his tie like it’s a noose. “Jen, we need to talk about Mom’s estate,” he says under his breath.
I stiffen. “Not now, Tyler. I can’t deal with the will stuff today.”
“But there are things we need to discuss,” he persists. “Decisions that need to be made.”
Kayla lays a placating hand on his arm. “Honey, let’s not do this here. It can wait.”
Tyler huffs but backs off. I shoot Kayla a grateful look. My sister-in-law and I have never been especially close, but I appreciate her support today.
Charlie sidles up to me, slipping her hand into mine and giving it a comforting squeeze. “There aren’t very many people here, Mom,” she remarks, glancing around with a small frown. “Do you think Maw-maw knew how loved she was?”
My heart twists painfully at her innocent question. “Of course she did, baby. Maw-maw knew we loved her so much. It’s just hard for some people to come to funerals.” Even as I say it, I feel a flare of irritation. Where is the rest of the Barnes clan? The second cousins and great aunts who were always so quick to show up with their hands out when Mom was alive but are conspicuously absent now that she’s gone?
I’m drawn out of my bitter musings by the approach of the funeral director, a tall, reedy man with thinning hair and a somber expression. “Ms. Holland? I think it’s time we start the service,” he says gently. “The minister is ready whenever you are.”
I take a shaky breath and nod. “Okay. Of course.” I square my shoulders and loop my arm through Charlie’s as the funeral director ushers us into the chapel.
As we take our seats in the front pew, my gaze drifts to the back of the room and I feel the air whoosh out of my lungs as if I’ve been sucker punched. Sitting in the last row, looking older and more careworn than I remember, is my father. David Holland. The man who put his Navy career over my childhood. The last time I saw him was decades ago, and it didn’t end well.
What the hell is he doing here?
I feel Charlie stiffen beside me as she follows my gaze. “Mom? Who’s that man in the back? He keeps staring at us.”
“That’s your grandfather,” I say through clenched teeth. “David Holland.”
Charlie’s eyes widen. “Grandpa David? But I thought you said…”
“I’ll explain later,” I cut her off as the minister takes his place at the pulpit and the first strains of “Amazing Grace” fill the air.
Throughout the service, I find my attention divided between the minister’s comforting words and the prickling awareness of my father’s presence. It’s surreal, sitting here mourning my mother while the man who broke her heart looks on. I’m filled with a confusing mix of anger, grief, and a tiny, traitorous spark of hope. Hope that maybe, after all these years, he’s finally come to make amends.
[imagine here a bit of eulogy about Patricia Barnes, talking about her loving husband Bill whom we lost in 2017, her daughter Jennifer and granddaughter Charlotte, and her son Tyler and his wife Kayla. Patricia was an active member of our congregation and make a list of things like she was a very involved church lady]
[Jennifer receives a note passed down from Aunt Linda Martin, her mother’s sister, complaining that she doesn’t see her song listed in the program. Jennifer reacts a little comically and then turns to lean down to her aunt and whispers “I’m sorry, I don’t know what happened.” Then the pastor asks if anyone wants to get up and say a few words about Patricia and Aunt Linda gets up. Jennifer starts to slouch in her pew and Charlotte wants to know what’s going to happen make this comical, Aunt Linda gets up there and caterwauls about her sister and starts to belt out “The Wind Beneath My Wings”]
[Jennifer glances back to see if her father has left, and he hasn’t though he appears amused at Aunt Linda’s performance. When no one goes up after Aunt Linda, the service comes to an end with everyone rising to sing “It Is Well With My Soul”]
Final version
West and Johnson made few changes after this third and final version: “Mostly we cut when the AI is just too verbose.”
I stand in the funeral home’s foyer, my black dress feeling too tight, too constricting. It’s as if the fabric is trying to squeeze the air from my lungs, but I know it’s just the grief. The anger. The overwhelming sense that I’m alone in this, despite the small gathering of people here to pay their respects to my mother.
I stand on wobbly legs, bracing myself for the onslaught of well-meaning but empty platitudes.
“Jennifer, I’m so sorry for your loss,” murmurs Mrs. Abernathy, enveloping me in a cloud of White Diamonds perfume. “Your mother was a saint. An absolute saint.”
Another elderly woman approaches me, her face etched with sympathy. “Jennifer, dear, I’m so sorry for your loss. Your mother was a wonderful woman. She will be deeply missed.”
I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Thank you, Mrs. Thompson. That means a lot.”
Charlie, my beautiful, strong daughter, stands beside me, her hand gently resting on my arm. At fourteen, she looks so grown up in her somber black dress and low heels, her chestnut hair pulled back in a neat ponytail. She’s trying to comfort me, even though I know she’s struggling to make sense of her own feelings.
“Mom, are you okay?” Charlie asks softly, her blue eyes filled with concern.
I force a smile. “I’m hanging in there, sweetie. It’s just…hard.”
She nods, understanding. “I miss Maw-maw already.”
“Me too, Charlie. Me too.” I squeeze her hand.
I glance around the sparsely populated room, taking in the handful of attendees. There’s Mrs. Johnson, our nosy neighbor from down the street. She’s wearing a garish floral dress that looks more appropriate for a Hawaiian luau than a funeral. She spots us and makes a beeline over, her face contorted in an exaggerated mask of sympathy.
“Jennifer, Charlotte, I’m so sorry for your loss,” Mrs. Johnson says, pulling me into a suffocating hug that reeks of mothballs. She holds on for an uncomfortably long time before finally releasing me. “If there’s anything at all I can do, you just let me know. I have a casserole in the freezer I can pop over later.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Johnson. That’s very kind of you,” I say politely, even though the thought of her tuna noodle surprise makes my stomach churn.
“You know, I remember when your mother first moved in down the street. Must have been, oh, fifteen years ago now. I told her, I said, ‘Patricia, you just holler if you need anything.’ And you know what? She never did. Not once. Always had to do everything herself, that one.” Mrs. Johnson shakes her head ruefully.
“That sounds like Mom,” I agree with a wistful smile. “She was pretty independent.”
“Well, I best be going. We’ll talk later.” Mrs. Johnson gives Charlie a lipstick-smeared kiss on the cheek before tottering away on her sensible pumps. She calls over her shoulder, “Holler if you need anything.”
I lean down and whisper to Charlie, “If she brings over that casserole, we’re feeding it to the dog.”
Charlie stifles a giggle. “Mom, we don’t have a dog.”
“Then I guess we’ll have to get one.” I wink at her, feeling a moment of levity amidst the heaviness.
Nurse Laura approaches next, her kind eyes radiating sympathy. She gives me a gentle hug. “Jennifer, I’m so sorry. Your mother was a special lady. It was a privilege to help care for her these last few months.”
“Thank you for everything you did, Laura. I don’t know how we would have managed without you and the hospice team.” I blink back tears, remembering how tenderly Laura had bathed and dressed Mom in her final days when the cancer had robbed her of her dignity.
“She’s at peace now,” Laura assures me, patting my arm. “If you ever need to talk, I’m here.” She presses a business card into my hand before moving on to speak with Charlie. I flip it over to see a phone number for a grief counselor. As if I haven’t been grieving my mother for over a year already, now I should get some help? Still, I roll my eyes and tuck it into my handbag.
Tyler, my half-brother, walks over with Kayla trailing behind him. He looks uncomfortable in his ill-fitting suit, tugging at his tie like it’s a noose. “Jen, we need to talk about Mom’s estate,” he says under his breath.
I stiffen. “Not now, Tyler. I can’t deal with the will stuff today.”
“But there are things we need to discuss,” he persists. “Decisions that need to be made.”
Kayla lays a placating hand on his arm. “Honey, let’s not do this here. It can wait.”
Tyler huffs but backs off. I shoot Kayla a grateful look. My sister-in-law and I have never been especially close, but I appreciate her support today.
Charlie sidles up to me, slipping her hand into mine and giving it a comforting squeeze. “There aren’t very many people here, Mom,” she remarks, glancing around with a small frown. “Do you think Maw-maw knew how loved she was?”
My heart twists painfully at her innocent question. “Of course she did, baby. Maw-maw knew we loved her so much. It’s just hard for some people to come to funerals.” Even as I say it, I feel a flare of irritation. Where is the rest of the Barnes clan? The second cousins and great aunts who were always so quick to show up with their hands out when Mom was alive but are conspicuously absent now that she’s gone?
I’m drawn out of my bitter musings by the approach of the funeral director, a tall, reedy man with thinning hair and a somber expression. “Ms. Holland? I think it’s time we start the service,” he says gently. “The minister is ready whenever you are.”
I take a shaky breath and nod. “Okay. Of course.” I square my shoulders and loop my arm through Charlie’s as the funeral director ushers us into the chapel.
As we take our seats in the front pew, my gaze drifts to the back of the room and I feel the air whoosh out of my lungs as if I’ve been sucker punched. Sitting in the last row, looking older and more careworn than I remember, is my father. David Holland. The man who put his Navy career over my childhood. The last time I saw him was decades ago, and it didn’t end well.
What the hell is he doing here?
I feel Charlie stiffen beside me as she follows my gaze. “Mom? Who’s that man in the back? He keeps staring at us.”
“That’s your grandfather,” I say through clenched teeth. “David Holland.”
Charlie’s eyes widen. “Grandpa David? But I thought you said…”
“I’ll explain later,” I cut her off as the minister takes his place at the pulpit and the first strains of “Amazing Grace” fill the air.
Throughout the service, I find my attention divided between the minister’s comforting words and the prickling awareness of my father’s presence. It’s surreal, sitting here mourning my mother while the man who broke her heart looks on. I’m filled with a confusing mix of anger, grief, and a tiny, traitorous spark of hope. Hope that maybe, after all these years, he’s finally come to make amends.
The minister speaks warmly of my mother, praising her devotion to her family and her church. “Patricia Barnes was a beacon of faith in our congregation,” he says. “She served faithfully on the altar guild, sang in the choir, and never missed a Sunday service. She was a loving wife to Bill, who we lost in 2017, and a devoted mother to Jennifer and Tyler. Her granddaughter Charlotte was the light of her life. Patricia’s presence will be deeply missed, but we take comfort in knowing she is at peace in the arms of our Lord.”
Aunt Linda, my mother’s older sister, passes a note down the pew to me. I unfold it, my brow furrowing as I read her spidery scrawl. “I don’t see my song listed in the program. Why wasn’t I asked to sing?” I suppress a groan. Aunt Linda fancies herself a singer, but her caterwauling could strip paint from the walls.
I lean over and whisper, “I’m sorry, Aunt Linda. I don’t know what happened.” She purses her lips, clearly displeased.
When the minister asks if anyone would like to say a few words about Patricia, Aunt Linda springs to her feet with surprising agility for a woman in her seventies. I slouch down in the pew, bracing myself. Charlie leans over, her eyes wide. “What’s she doing?” she whispers.
“Brace yourself,” I mutter back. “Hurricane Linda is about to make landfall.”
Aunt Linda totters up to the podium, smoothing her skirt. She clears her throat and begins to warble a wildly off-key rendition of “Wind Beneath My Wings.” I cringe, covering my face with my hands. Charlie is shaking with suppressed laughter beside me. The congregation shifts uncomfortably, exchanging pained looks.
When Aunt Linda finishes, she bows to scattered, polite applause. I risk a glance back at my father. He looks like he’s trying very hard not to laugh. Aunt Linda returns to her seat, fanning herself dramatically. “I think that went well,” she whispers loudly. “Don’t you?”
I just nod, not trusting myself to speak. After a moment of awkward silence, the minister invites the congregation to rise and sing “It Is Well With My Soul.” As the first notes of the hymn swell around us, I feel the tears I’ve been holding back finally begin to fall. Charlie slips her arm around my waist, and I lean into her, grateful for her steady strength.
I glance back one more time, half expecting my father to have slipped out during Aunt Linda’s performance. But he’s still there, his gaze meeting mine. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes. Regret? Longing? I can’t quite read him. Then the moment is broken as the final notes of the hymn fade away and the service comes to an end.
Jane Friedman has spent her entire career working in the publishing industry, with a focus on business reporting and author education. Established in 2015, her newsletter The Bottom Line provides nuanced market intelligence to thousands of authors and industry professionals; in 2023, she was named Publishing Commentator of the Year by Digital Book World.
Jane’s expertise regularly features in major media outlets such as The New York Times, The Atlantic, NPR, The Today Show, Wired, The Guardian, Fox News, and BBC. Her book, The Business of Being a Writer, Second Edition (The University of Chicago Press), is used as a classroom text by many writing and publishing degree programs. She reaches thousands through speaking engagements and workshops at diverse venues worldwide, including NYU’s Advanced Publishing Institute, Frankfurt Book Fair, and numerous MFA programs.
