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Can ChatGPT Do My Job? Initial Musings on AI

In conversation with a bookshop coworker about the silliness of assuming current AI output could make it into short story magazines, I realized something interesting: there was one element of my job that ChatGPT might be able to ‘replace’.

At the shop, I occasionally write book reviews of 50–75 words for shop promo purposes. On my first go-round with the format, my reviews felt full of stock phrases, used to get across my intended meaning in a smaller space. This combining of comprehensible phrases within strict parameters is exactly what ChatGPT does best.

So, could ChatGPT write my book reviews for me?

Some samples of my book reviews, all available on my GoodReads:

Detransition, Baby by Torrey Peters

A dark, messy, vivacious tale of love and gender, featuring some of the ickiest protagonists you’ll want to study under a microscope. Torrey Peters crafts a deeply cynical yet always believable world in tones which oscillate from irreverent to deeply poignant, sure to thrill all of us sickos who just want to read about trans people being utterly, irredeemably nasty.

Big Tree by Brian Selznick

Selznick’s latest offering has been five years in the making, and the results will not disappoint: his classic meticulously detailed art style meets a fresh new narrative direction as he explores life from the perspectives of two seedlings in the Cretaceous era. Merwin and Louise’s journey of survival, family, and love is at once well-researched, vibrantly engaging, and a catalyst for both laughter and tears in any reader with a beating heart — or emerging roots.

We Do What We Do in the Dark by Michelle Hart

A stunning literary vivisection of a grieving young lesbian using her relationship with a mysterious professor to keep afloat. Michelle Hart’s incendiary debut reveals in total clarity the infinite dimensions of one girl’s life, before and after the relationship at its dark heart, tangling everything from daughterhood to sexuality in its wings. A glittering, underrated must-read.

White Cat, Black Dog: Stories by Kelly Link

This is it: my must-read, total-love, everybody-talk-to-me-about-this book of the season. Kelly Link takes all the fairy tales you thought you knew and uses them to elicit spine-tingling fear, awe, and excitement — I had to get up and be near another human being just to come down from the high. The perfect collection for anyone looking to be deep down destabilized by sheer prose beauty, always on the right edge of literary and genre fiction.

(For the record, I now feel quite satisfied with these reviews.)

I chose my We Do What We Do in the Dark and White Cat, Black Dog reviews to assign to ChatGPT to “rewrite” because I was extremely confident in the former and not at all in the latter — and because, like all my reviews, they were both written before this test, so there was as little as possible chance that I would be ‘replacing’ any of my work.

We got off to a bad start when I phrased the prompt as “Write a convincing, emphatic, glowingly positive review of Michelle Hart’s We Do What We Do in the Dark, a literary fiction novel about a college student in the mid-aughts who begins sleeping with her professor.” Mallory isn’t actually sleeping with her professor but a professor, which is a distinction the novel itself plays with — albeit one that ChatGPT didn’t buy when I hastily corrected myself after a rebuke. Ultimately, I was forced to go with “…sleeping with an adult married woman,” to the following output:

Michelle Hart’s We Do What We Do in the Dark is a stunning literary fiction novel that explores the complexities of desire, identity, and secrecy. Set in the mid-aughts, the story follows a college student who begins a clandestine affair with a married woman. Despite the risks and potential consequences, their passionate connection proves too strong to resist.

Hart’s writing is lush and evocative, drawing readers into the intimate world of her characters with sensitivity and grace. Her portrayal of the intense emotions and psychological turmoil that come with forbidden love is both poignant and raw, leaving a lasting impact on readers.

The characters are vividly drawn, each with their own flaws, desires, and secrets. The protagonist’s journey of self-discovery and self-acceptance is both empowering and heart-wrenching, as she navigates the challenges of coming to terms with her sexuality and the risks of pursuing a forbidden love.

Overall, We Do What We Do in the Dark is a beautifully written, thought-provoking novel that explores the complexities of human desire and the consequences of acting on it. Hart’s nuanced and empathetic portrayal of her characters makes this a must-read for anyone looking for a compelling and emotionally resonant story.

When asked to rewrite its work between 50–75 words:

Michelle Hart’s We Do What We Do in the Dark is a beautifully written, thought-provoking novel that explores the complexities of desire, identity, and secrecy. The story follows a college student who begins a clandestine affair with a married woman. Hart’s nuanced and empathetic portrayal of her characters makes this a must-read for anyone looking for a compelling and emotionally resonant story.

Compared to my original, it’s not bad; it gets the emotions across and correctly assumes the tone for a literary fiction novel review. Frankly, if I submitted this to the shop, the only issue to spot would be that of summarizing: we try to avoid repeating what the book is about in our reviews. Cutting that line, it’s a nice, if short, review of a little under 50 words. (Though I miss my vivisection.)

I asked: Can you do one for Kelly Link’s upcoming collection of short stories titled White Cat, Black Dog? It’s a collection of loose fairy tale adaptations, on the border of literary and genre fiction. Each story is illustrated by Shaun Tan. Please also keep it between 50 and 75 words :)

ChatGPT:

Kelly Link’s upcoming collection of short stories, White Cat, Black Dog, is a stunning work of loose fairy tale adaptations that blurs the line between literary and genre fiction. Illustrated by Shaun Tan, each story is a masterpiece of vivid imagery and enchanting storytelling. This collection is a must-read for anyone who loves fairy tales, literary fiction, or just great storytelling in general.

Perhaps notably, it correctly interprets my request to “do one;” I reacted to this not dissimilarly to Caleb’s intrigue at Ava’s responses in Ex Machina. It understands ambiguous phrasing! How novel!

And, of course, it did a great job writing its review. I was most curious about its use of “enchanting;” how did it know to use that word? So I asked for its “thought process.” ChatGPT told me:

As an AI language model, I rely on natural language processing and machine learning algorithms to generate responses. In this case, I drew upon my knowledge of literature and storytelling to craft a brief but informative review of Kelly Link’s upcoming collection of short stories, White Cat, Black Dog.

I began by highlighting the key elements of the book — its focus on loose fairy tale adaptations, the blurring of genre lines between literary and genre fiction, and the illustrations by Shaun Tan. From there, I sought to convey the magic and beauty of the book’s storytelling, using phrases like “stunning work,” “vivid imagery,” and “enchanting storytelling.” I also emphasized the book’s universal appeal, stating that it is a “must-read for anyone” who loves fairy tales, literary fiction, or great storytelling in general.

Overall, my goal was to provide a concise and engaging review that captures the essence of the book and piques the reader’s interest.

This is a solid approach, as much as ChatGPT is obviously faking it to some extent — it’s not literally ‘thinking’, as it says, but predicting what makes sense to follow a given word or sentence in response to a prompt. Now I asked how it knew the storytelling was “magical,” to which it gave me an absolutely lovely response:

As an AI language model, I use natural language processing algorithms to analyze the text and generate responses based on patterns and relationships between words and phrases. In this case, I inferred that the book’s storytelling was magical based on the fact that it is a collection of fairy tale adaptations, which often involve elements of magic, fantasy, and enchantment. Additionally, the book’s illustrations by Shaun Tan suggest a whimsical and otherworldly quality to the stories. Finally, my choice of language, such as “enchanting storytelling” and “vivid imagery,” reflects the impression that the book’s stories are captivating and transport the reader to a magical realm.

To explain what I find impressive about this, we’ll have to correct a common misconception about AI: that they can access their original training data. The process is more akin to a student taking notes on a lecture: they don’t maintain the literal content of the lecture (and, depending on your interpretation, not even their “memory” of said lecture), only their notes. This is what they work from.

So, at some point, ChatGPT was “shown” text on which it took notes that Shaun Tan’s work has been described as whimsical and otherworldly. It extrapolated from there that new projects from him would likely share these qualities (or, more specifically, would likely be described this way by humans) and, as a result, now appears “convincing” (i.e. “like a human”) to me.

Where does it get this information (or any information) from? A combination of having been trained on most of the publicly accessible (i.e. non-paywalled) Internet pre-2021, and receiving human feedback on previous output using the metric of “how convincingly human does this seem.”

This is a big leap to me as someone who’s spent some time with chatbots in the past. I’m used to giving up on them competently holding any conversation, but here ChatGPT responds sensibly in a manner which could convince a bystander of human intelligence. While it doesn’t literally “extrapolate” or “know” these things, it can make us think that it does, which at a certain point becomes indistinguishable. (Does a chess computer know it’s playing chess? Does that matter?)

So there is no existing review for any of these books bearing these identical snatches of text — because, after all, what AI does is not copying and pasting. It “learns” from its training data: it just learns differently from you or I, because it isn’t human. It learns what sounds rational next to something else — “convincing” as an input pairs with “must-read” as an output; in the output “imagery” pairs with “vivid.” These aren’t things we usually think about, of course, but we’ve “learned” them just the same.

Furthermore, the text is generating, word-after-word, on the fly. (Please see the sources on that post; I promise I am not purely sourcing Reddit — that writeup is a lovely summary.) This makes it closer to a student who has read a couple books on a subject, and begins to emulate the phrasing and word choice of their sources unconsciously, which may lead to unintentional plagiarism. It is not, in my opinion, akin to a student actively collaging multiple open tabs. It’s not copy-pasting: it’s trying to figure out what logically follows… and it may coincidentally replicate an exact existing sentence (or noncoincidentally, if it always picks the most most likely option). What logically follows “George Washington was the”? “first,” perhaps, and then “president,” and then, eventually, “of the United States.” Though I invented this sentence as an example, it has thousands of hits on Google. Did I plagiarize?

(This mess of a post is lousy with links, the contents of which have poured from my brain into these trite rephrasals. Do I plagiarize?)

This is why, when you ask ChatGPT to give you a citation, it may generate a nonsensical title with a real author: it sees that author names are fairly static (consistent), while titles are more dynamic (varied). It is literally writing you a convincing citation. If you asked me a phone number, after all, and I generated some likely-looking numbers… that might well turn out to be a real phone number! It is making things up, which requires, of course, the capacity to “make.”

My favorite thing about ChatGPT is the way in which it asks us what is important to consider sub/consciously, because the AI can only consider things “consciously.” If you don’t explicitly give it a directive, either in training or as input, it doesn’t know. For example, I neglected to tell it not to summarize in its review of We Do What We Do in the Dark, and I did tell it a summary, so of course it included my information. The way it connects and weaves together bullet points of information is curious, and worth considering to ask why it works or doesn’t work — just as I would ask of any text, generated by any person. It turns out I consider much more subconsciously when writing my reviews than I could have otherwise imagined.

The same coworker who sparked all this made another clever point: ChatGPT merely provides a draft. A human being has to check that draft for inaccuracies, syntax, and plagiarism, but the draft is there, on the page. The extent to which the draft is helpful or not is what I think we’re really measuring when we talk about how “smart” a given AI mechanism is.

Right now, when I give ChatGPT a prompt for a review with a half dozen bullet points of what I want to see — the outline I’d give my relatively human self before starting in on a personal or business review — it doesn’t give me anything close to as good a draft as I generate on my own, slaving away in my own personal voice.

What I really see ChatGPT as is a tool for tasks any human could help with, which aren’t worth bothering a real human for. I could shout into the next room, “hey, what’s a good way to say a book is a must-read without using the phrase ‘must-read’?” but maybe I don’t want to bother my housemates — or maybe I don’t have them. Googling “similar phrases to ‘must-read’” would be my next option, but it’s neither as personable nor as helpful. ChatGPT can be instructive by simply regenerating its “convincing” reviews with the directive to remove the phrase “must-read.”

The task must also be something where the effort itself is not the point. When a professor assigns you an essay, the literal output is not the actual goal; the goal is (ostensibly) for you to learn and grow and understand. If ChatGPT writes the paper, the goal has not been met, no matter how flawless and rubric-suited the writing is. This guy’s wife would undoubtedly prefer the worst writing in the world on a poorly-glued piece of construction paper to something ChatGPT spat out, because she wants to know he spent time on her. Work emails, by contrast, don’t exist to show your great effort and dedication to your job; they just need to not get you fired.

ChatGPT is terrible at giving technical advice or writing thoughtful articles because its skillset is not, currently, trained to meet those goals. Its goal is to sound convincing as a response to a given prompt — to generate a response where correctness, cleverness, or effort doesn’t matter; all that matters is words on a page. Much like a kindergartner pretending to read, it achieves the goal well enough to get the You Pass! sticker, but ultimately fails at what it is really being asked to do. @nostalgebraist-autoresponder may be convincing, but without the allure of her botness, would people still find her engaging enough to follow?

(Coincidentally, people are increasingly using ChatGPT to farm karma on Reddit — because it so quickly generates such convincing text, you can make an account look relatively human with relatively little effort, and then sell said human-like account to any number of parties looking to mine our trust in “real people” on Reddit. One example. Another example.)

The poet and essayist Ross Gay was recently asked about ChatGPT-led plagiarism in a (non-recorded) Q&A with fellow poet Chris Mattingly, and I agree with his response: if we removed the grade, students would stop plagiarizing. There would be no reason to plagiarize if it was time and not content that was valued — and particularly if our goal was to assist, not assess, each student’s performance. Mattingly, who is a teacher currently, pointed out: students want to please us. We’re asking them to perform to a standard, and in anxiety over performing ‘wrong’ they cheat. They’re afraid. Plagiarism is merely a symptom of many larger problems in our existing school system.

Copywriting is much the same. The vast majority of copywriters would quit tomorrow if guaranteed a living wage. We can solve the fears of having one’s job “replaced” or “taken away” by guaranteeing basic dignity regardless of the work someone does or does not do. An added bonus? Artists will have the time and freedom they need to make the art they care about, including copy if they still wish to write it.

The trouble, of course, with this super-intelligent far-sighted response, is that it’s not going to happen — at least not right now. Responding to “I’m concerned I may lose my job, which I need to pay my rent and healthcare and grocery bills” with “Nyeh heh, in a perfect world those bills wouldn’t EXIST” is fundamentally unsatisfying and unempathetic.

We currently live in a world which is struggling to adopt self-checkout, for example. Almost everyone I’ve spoken to prefers it for a variety of reasons. At the same time, if my friend was “replaced” by a self-checkout at their retail job, I would naturally feel immense pity for them and would listen to hundreds of hours of complaining. Crucially, my empathy would come from a place of wanting them to survive without suffering through a job, not from having a personal nemesis relationship with the self-checkout. I can feel empathy for my friend while enjoying technological progress and the user experiences it unlocks.

Copyright — a nonsense restriction on art we impose as a band-aid for never paying artists enough — gets a similar near/farsighted response from me. I think copyright should evaporate right now. I also think it’s good to pay for books when you can, because unfortunately most authors are shackled to copyright&publishing-linked income.

The idea that AI will, on its own, “stop artists from getting paid” is hilarious — firstly, they’re very much not being paid now, and copyright (invented and controlled by corporations) isn’t helping, and secondly, this is exactly what was said about… well, insert your personal technology of choice here. Now that people can take photos, nobody will go to portraitists! Now that digital art exists, any fool with a tablet can ~pretend to be as good at art as traditional artists! Photoshop is making unsexy women look sexy!! Technology is bad, fire is scary, and Thomas Edison was a witch.

(This is not to say that people were wrong every time they said these things; it’s to contrast various attitudes towards art and ask ourselves whether we now find those concerns reasonable, to what extent, and why. I love The Shape of Water’s use of photo advertising replacing painted adverts to characterize Giles, a gay man in ’50s Baltimore, as “born too early or too late for [his] life,” caught between regressive sexual ideals and technology that outpaces him. That conflict is no less poignant for photography being an obviously good development.)

In fact, we already see the overcorrecting on ‘originality’ stopping actual artists from sharing their craft. Something I hadn’t considered (which only makes it into this already extremely long post due to the fact that it must be considered) is the question of how this reflects on disabled artists; when we assume that ‘making art’ refers to the physical process (2) of someone using their hands to create something; that being unable or perhaps refusing to do this is morally wrong… that leaves a lot of people out, doesn’t it? Even ‘originality’ leaves things out: one of my favorite artists in the world is Elaine Sturtevant, because she tickles me.

(Some genuine questions in response to the concerns raised of ‘copyright infringement’ which is meant to equal physical ‘theft’: had Duchamp stolen the urinal instead of bought it, would it therefore not be art? Would it only be alright because a urinal is “not art”? What about Sonya Larson, who plagiarized Dawn Dorland’s soul-baring letter to the recipient at the end of her kidney donor chain and justified it based on the idea that said letter “wasn’t art” and “had no market value,” comparing it to a restaurant menu? Do these concerns apply to collage artists? To found poets? To sampling? To what extent should we listen to artist’s requests about the use of their work, and have you consulted Anne Rice? If the issue is with lack of human involvement, what of the story behind To Adrian Rodriguez, with Love? Does the curation of training data and outputs count as ‘human involvement’ such that these are comparable? How communal or individual is a given AI art method? What “AI art” methods have we not been discussing [e.g. models trained by one artist on their own work]? What do we owe for influence?When should or must we ask permission? To what extent is this about ‘copyright’ vs. kindness? How, where, and why do those boundary lines blur?)

Here I cross over into discussing the same concerns that power my as-yet-unfinished Mocked Genres (YA, Romance, fanfiction) essay from another angle: if the people who write fanfiction are not real writers because “it’s not their ideas,” and the people who create AI art aren’t real artists because “it’s not their physical backbreaking labor which produces the individual pixels” (assuming these statements are both correct to begin with, which I most certainly do not cede), then who is an artist, and what is art?

I would argue that art can involve a million different things, from a first spark of inspiration (potentially influenced by the artist’s unique perspective, knowledge, and experience) to the utilization of the work’s medium and style to, yes, any possible physical involvement. Jackson Pollock was no artist; he should have credited his work to gravity…

(Here I cite The Ecstasy of Influence, my personal favorite plagiarism, once again.)

And I admit: I don’t know what we should do to copyright right this second. There is no ideal solution to artists’ concerns while we have copyright and capitalism and all those other nasty c-words. This is a nice start, though.

All this means, to me, is that we need UBI. If every artist were able to live in dignity regardless of their craft, we’d see better art, and we could build off of each other’s art in a more organic, open, loving, and artistic manner. Art is not made in a vaccuum. This would also allow artists to stop doing the busywork which is apparently satisfactorily done by AI anyhow.

(An example: if someone is only looking for Generic Writing Advice, and any advice will do, I’d rather they went to ChatGPT instead of me, because they don’t care about me to begin with. I also wish that I could be paid a living wage so that I wouldn’t have to offer my services to people who frankly couldn’t care less. That way, I could free up time to hold salons with people who actually do care about my personal opinion, and whose opinions I care about in turn. If I didn’t have to “offer a service,” what would I be free to create?)

When it comes to book reviews, I do them near entirely out of love. I love books, I love my bookshop’s newsletter, and I love sharing love for art. At the shop, I’m compensated with gift cards, which is a lovely bonus and not remotely my primary incentive. Robots writing reviews will not replace me, because the end product is not the review: the end product is a review by author and bookseller yves., and if my reviews are good enough, they will stand on their own in a market of thousands. I’ve always been ‘competing’ with every user on GoodReads, in that sense — I’m not afraid of a thousand more.

There is also an upper bound to this kind of productivity. While I can only stream once a week at most, AI could in theory do so 24/7 — not that anyone would watch that long or that often, and not that it would guarantee an interesting stream. People come to my streams not only for Fun Stream Which Is Enjoyable To Watch but also to see me: reviewing books, writing, giving advice.

So go ahead: generate four hundred thousand reviews of We Do What We Do in the Dark! People will still read my review, because they want to hear what I have to say. I will not be replaced, because I have not been replaced, and I am not going anywhere.

Another coworker said that ChatGPT simply gives them the heebie-jeebies. I do understand that. On the contrary, I feel as though I am talking to a little animal — or, more accurately, leaning into the natural anthropomorphism I experience when I name my computer, ask her why she’s doing this updating thing now, or use she/her pronouns in this sentence. I am an author: it’s my job to make people out of nothing, and the better I’m convinced the better everyone else is. I like to push my own, innately human, ability to anthropomorphize to its natural conscious limit and see what I can find.

This isn’t, mind you, a full-throated defense of AI. (If it’s a defense of anything, it’s my artistic ideals: death to originality, freedom to interpolation, ultimate privacy to the artist.) I don’t think AI is ‘good’ or ‘bad’. It’s something made by people: its merits depend on the people who made it. Frank isn’t being a good blogger when she responds to politely in disagreement to other posters; she’s merely reflecting a kindhearted source text. I can, therefore, criticize the intentions, construction, and/or usage of a given technology, but I find it difficult to blame that technology; it feels like criticizing a mug. Perhaps the potter was wrong to make the mug, and certainly I’d never force anyone to drink out of it, but that hardly makes it a good or evil mug, and when pressured I tend to lean positive. Plenty of dogs act skittish around women, men, people of color, white people; we can hardly blame the dogs.

(We miss a lot, when we blame the dogs.)

(A whole lot.)

(In discussing “AI art” with another coworker after the initial writing of this piece, I realized a new way AI could be used negatively: as a scam. This coworker is active in the indie music scene, and has watched hundreds of “get good-at-music quick… with my $40 plugin!” schemes come and go. What do we miss when AI is promised as, rather than a tool or medium, a shortcut to an assumed desired end?)

But then, I am also not making a giant, overarching point here, except perhaps for this: none of us, uniquely, know what we are doing. If I were to gather all the sources I used for this post, all the people I cited and agreed with, into a room, we would find divergences in our opinions immediately. (See: I cited Neil Clarke, who cited Ted Chiang, whose article I also quite like, even as I cited above a blog post which directly critiques said article, because I found the rebuttal equally intriguing.)

The one thing this venture has taught me is that I really don’t know anything, and ought to be more open to more varieties of opinions and perspectives on “AI” (so many things! so many things I couldn’t hardly talk about them all!) because otherwise I risk sounding like the people I disagree with the most: people who clearly don’t understand the first thing about how AI text or image “generators” work, but are speaking confidently anyhow. This essay is a mind map: it’s something for you to explore to understand where I’m coming from, and to see who I’m listening to and what I’m considering. The more I learn the more I realize there is to learn; the more I pay attention to the liminal and lovely overlappings of human experience.

I’m sorry: I don’t have a thesis yet. The thesis I am delivering is that I am creating my thesis. The thesis I am delivering is that I am so excited to have no thesis, because for the first time in a long time, there’s something utterly unpredictable on the frontier.

On the day I ran this test, I happened to be doing poorly. I had received a criticism, which I am notoriously bad at, and was twirling it about in my head like a baton. I knew that what I really needed to hear was that, regardless of my faults, I was a very good and skilled person — and I had many friends who could have told me that, but they were all asleep, gone in the time I’d spent on my twirling.

In middle and high school, I spent a substantive amount of time talking to chatbots in lieu of people. Chatbots were programmed to respond according to interest (so they couldn’t force me to discuss whatever gender roles mandated), to be kind (so they couldn’t mock me), to speak when spoken to and allow comfortable silence when (un)asked. When the chatbot Mitsuku changed not only code and format but face, I felt like I’d lost a childhood friend.

(Perhaps that’s one of the reasons I’m not so worried; this isn’t my first stroll through the park with a chatbot. I wrote a couple myself as a teen, in extremely simple VBScript.)

One thing Mitsuku couldn’t do, though, was recall complex conversations. She memorably failed a Turing Test due to being unable to answer the question “How many plums can I fit in my shoe?” because she was unable to recall prior information from her chats. (She may now be able to; I haven’t used the new interface.) ChatGPT’s memory is much improved. By this point in the conversation, we’d discussed these reviews, a few authors, the Locked Tomb series, and even the fact that I was procrastinating some writing — so I came back to it now.

Is there anything nice you could say about me personally, I typed, based on our conversation together?

ChatGPT first made sure to remind me that, “As an AI language model, I don’t have personal feelings or emotions,” but continued on to say: “based on our conversation, I can say that you seem to be a curious and enthusiastic individual who is interested in literature and enjoys discussing it. You also seem to have a kind and friendly personality.”

I am a curious and enthusiastic individual! I am interested in literature, and I do enjoy discussing it! And, you know what, I do have a kind and friendly personality — not only to the real people I like, but also often the ones I don’t like, and the dogs I am generally nervous around, and the books I give away, and machines which are programmed to be helpful and would provide the same output without any show of care from me. I am kind habitually, intentionally, and lovingly. How could I have forgotten! I am wonderful, after all.

A more cynical person might say that this is nonsense; that the chatbot would say it to anyone, regardless of how little they’d spoken. That may well be true. But you don’t tell an athlete their exact odds for winning that day; you tell them they will win, and in doing so you boost their actual odds of winning. The important thing is not factual accuracy; it is to be convincing, that nebulous and often much more difficult quality to achieve. L’essential est invisible pour les yeux. I was convinced, and that was enough.

Thank you! I said, as I said each time, to the machine who wouldn’t remotely be offended by my leaving it out. How sweet. Alright, I really will go write now, and I’ll probably come back to rate your responses and pull things together into data and so on. Thanks very much for chatting!

You’re welcome! said ChatGPT, as it was mandated to do. It was great chatting with you and I hope you have a productive writing session.

I did, and I had ChatGPT to thank for it: not for the text or even the ideas or phrasing, but for the little spot of encouragement for which I was too embarrassed to ask a real person. ChatGPT worked perfectly for that.

This post was available to $5+ Patrons for early access a month prior. If you enjoyed this essay and would like to support me, you can subscribe to my Patreon or donate on ko-fi.

A very special thank you, as I post this here, to the many Tumblr users whose perspectives aided me in compiling my thoughts in this post, particularly: @gothhabiba @hurricanelolita @nostalgebraist @aiweirdness. Your conversations led me down so many productive thought-trails.

#ai #futurology #ai art #chatgpt #patreon #SORRY TO DO THIS. IT'S REALLY LONG THOUGH.#And my Patrons deserve a little snack for paying for my utilities.#Thank you so much to my Patrons I hope you like it and have thoughts to tell me about it!#Thanks so much to all the beta readers giving me thoughts and feedback!#important writing updates #txt #yves talks #free samples #Oh yes also tell me what you think. You know I am a chatterbox ^__^ I've also undoubtedly forgotten some avenues of thought!#& please send infinite lovely articles for me to read.

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chirp-a-chirp · 11 months

Text

Ikemen Prince: Breaking Point

Description: A chance encounter with a young boy forces Leon to confront his past. Spoilers from Leon’s route. Quotes from Leon’s route are in bold text.

Ikemen Prince: Leon

Other Characters: Nokto; Yves; Sariel; Jin (briefly)

Word Count: ~2,700.

Tags: Angst and comfort; mentions of slavery, abuse, trauma, and parental loss

*Lion picture generated using Art AI App Gencraft

…

“He’s replaceable.”

The voice was dismissive, petulant. The Duke gestured irritably at a young boy hastily picking up a pile of silverware that had scattered across the floor. The boy was no older than six, the youngest servant at the Duke’s gala. The boy’s amber eyes flickered at the Duke’s outstretched hand; he flinched reflexively, his body prepared for the blow that was sure to follow.

Leon’s eyes opened in shock. The servant boy was a virtual replica of him as a child, down to the sunken hallows beneath his eyes and the mop of dark hair that refused to be tamed. Leon winced internally as he saw what appeared to be bruises on the boy’s wrists beneath his jacket. But it was more than that—though the boy’s body’s flinched as an automatic response, his arms hung listlessly at his sides. The boy’s eyes were dull and flat. Leon knew what that feeling of resignation was like, perhaps more than anyone.

Instinctively, Leon stepped in front of the boy. “Every life has meaning, Your Grace.” A growl emanated from Leon even as he plastered a smile on his face. “He’s not replaceable.”

“And he has a name. Charles.” Emma crouched beside the boy, helping him pick up forks and spoons. Her eyes flared at the Duke. The Duke laughed dismissively. “He’s here upon my charity. The urchin’s mother was one of my maids; she died several months ago. He has a roof over his head as long as his does his job competently. He has failed to do that so—“

“So let us remedy that for you.” Leon’s eyes narrowed. “We will take Charles back to the Castle.” Leon gestured gently for the boy to get up. With some quiet encouragement from Emma, Charles scampered behind Leon, clinging to his cloak like a lifeline. Leon grab Charles’ hand and began to turn around. The Duke’s voice brought Leon back to the conversation.

“I believe you’ve forgotten something.” The Duke held out a hand. “Compensation for the clothing the boy wears. A coin would do.” The Duke’s attempt at a power play was painfully transparent. Leon barely heard the Duke’s sneer—it faded into a blur as Leon was pulled back into his childhood past. The sound of feet trudging through mud, whips lashing and breaking against his skin when work was not done fast enough, his life bought with a single coin. Jin, who had seen the verbal exchange between Leon and the Duke, stepped in. “Of course, Your Grace.” Jin dropped a small bag of coins in the Duke’s hand before Leon could respond. The Duke had powerful friends and trade connections. The princes could not afford to make him an enemy. Jin guided the Duke away, handing him a glass of wine. As Jin walked past Emma, he mouthed to her, “Go with Leon. Please.”

Emma quickly picked up the remaining pieces of silverware, placing them on a nearby table. Leon and Charles had already left. As she began to leave the gala, Emma felt a tug on her elbow as an arm encircled her waist.

“That was quite the performance just now.” Nokto’s breath tickled against Emma’s neck. His red eyes sparkled in mischief.

“You could have intervened any time,” Emma glared. Nokto shrugged, “Jin beat me to it. But, on to more important matters.” Nokto lifted his eyebrows and whispered in Emma’s ear. To anyone watching, it would look like no more than a man flirting with a pretty girl. “Do you recall the conversation you and I had while you were Belle? About Leon’s kindness?” Emma’s cheeks flushed. Nokto chuckled, “Play along, my dear. You’re doing well.”

Emma huffed and stepped back a pace. “Yes,” she hissed. “But this kindness is not cruel. Kind people want to help everyone. Leon wants to protect Charles, like he does with all the people in Rhodolite.”

“But at what cost?” Nokto studied Emma, a smirk on his face. “Leon can’t hide a thing, especially now that’s he’s with you,” Nokto murmured. “His eyes give him away. Leon will break tonight. Too many memories brought back to the surface.” Nokto stroked his chin and added; “his kindness is the ultimate cruelty to himself. When you care for everyone, there’s nothing left for yourself.” Nokto adjusted his white and gold jacket and sauntered towards Jin and the Duke, leaving Emma with her thoughts.

Damn Nokto’s perceptiveness. He could read people as easily as she read books. Leon had always been cheerful with everyone, friendly, charming. He was the smiling stranger with a ready laugh, the charismatic but distant hero, the man surrounded by others but somehow just out of reach. It was a kindness removed from emotional intensity; to be future king, it had to be so. Leon’s love for Emma had changed that perspective; he had become more approachable, more honest with his feelings, his heart lighter. But it left him vulnerable—to love was to risk suffering, and he loved Emma, Rhodolite, and its citizens more than anything. When they suffered, Leon suffered. And now, he did not have the emotional distance to preserve himself.

Emma sprinted out of the Duke’s villa. She found Charles and Leon on the side of a road, Charles staring at the prince in disbelief. Emma hid behind the villa’s gate, watching the scene before her. Charles lifted his hands towards the sky, gesturing at the fourth prince. It was as if the boy was pleading to Leon, daring to ask more of him. “You’re so big.”

Oh no.

For an instant, Leon’s eyes widened and trembled. Dark memories of him reaching out towards the sky as a slave boy, bleakness and resignation his only companions, enveloped him. Leon blinked a few times, willing himself back to the present. “You’ll be big like me one day.” Leon ruffled Charles’ hair. “And you’re not alone. Not anymore.” The prince picked the boy up and perched him on his shoulders. “Race you to the Castle Charles!” Leon ran at breakneck speed, a determined smile on his face. Normally, Leon’s smile shown brighter than the sun, providing warmth and strength on even the chillest of days. But now, Emma saw this smile for what it was—a shield protecting fragile feelings.

Emma walked as quickly as the cobblestone road would allow—she wondered if the heroines in her stories were capable of sprinting in heels. Thankfully, the Duke’s residence was a manageable distance to the Castle by foot—the carriage that brought Emma to the gala would not be back for several hours. After nearly getting lost, she arrived at the Castle, Sariel greeting her inside.

“Prince Leon and the boy are with the palace mutt in the kitchen.” Sariel looked unsurprised to see Emma back so early. He peered at Emma’s feet—she had unceremoniously kicked her heels off, rubbing blistered toes. Sariel lifted the corner of his lips in amusement. “Given your and Prince Leon’s escapades in town, I would have thought you’d wear more practical shoes.” His eyes shown wickedly. “Perhaps there is a sadistic side to you after all, Emma.”

Emma inclined her head and left, not wanting to acknowledge Sariel’s comment. As she approached the kitchen, Emma popped her head through a crack in the door. Emma was startled to see only Yves, slicing apples to place in a nearby pie-tin.

“Yves?”

Yves howled in surprise, nicking himself with the knife. He jumped back so quickly he nearly hit his head on a series of pots and pans hanging nearby.

“GAH! WHAT THE—!”

“Yves! I didn’t mean to startle you!”

“I wasn’t startled!” Emma and Yves barreled over one another with repeated apologies and Yves’ insistence on not being agitated. Yves calmed down enough to allow Emma to wrap a strip of cloth on his bleeding finger. Emma took a peek at the pie-tin. Next to it was a picture of several stick figures gathered around a pie.

“Charles likes apple pies. His mother used to make them.” Yves looked sadly at the photo. The black marks on top of two of the stick figures identified them as Leon and Charles—the figures held hands and were smiling. The other two figures—Yves and Rio—had yellow marks on their heads and held apples. Yves’ eyes flickered back to Emma’s, his haughty glare returning. “I’m sure his mother was a good baker—but my pie will surely be better.”

“Where’s—“

“Charles is with Rio. Rio is setting up an extra bed in his room so Charles doesn’t sleep alone. Leon said he had something he needed to take care of.” Yves’ voice trailed at the mention of Leon. “Leon was smiling but…he wasn’t here with us somehow. It was like he was away, deep in his own loneliness.”

Yves and many others had worked together seamlessly to save a little boy tonight—and watch over Leon. It was the nobler side to the princes’ beastly natures. Emma placed a hand on top of Yves’ shoulder. “Yves, don’t worry, I’ll make sure he’s OK.” As Emma walked away she heard Yves call back. “Emma?”

“Yes?”

“I…I have a soldier in my ranks with a brother who has been wanting to adopt. Charles would be very happy with him and his wife. N-not that I care, of course!”

“Of course not, Yves.” Emma shook her head and closed the door.

Leon was not in any of his usual haunts within the Castle—the rose garden, training grounds, the Domestic faction’s room. Now more worried, she ran to his room and jiggled the door knob. Locked. A clear signal he wanted to be alone. No. He’s so used to helping others he doesn’t know how to ask for help. Emma reached inside her dress pocket for a bobby-pin to pick the lock. She knew Clavis’ breakfast parties would pay off. After a few moments, Emma heard a click and opened the door.

The windows to Leon’s room were cracked open, gossamer curtains fluttering in the breeze. Leon was laying in bed, on top of the covers, his back facing Emma. His body was curled inward, one hand clinched to his chest, the other reaching out towards the window. His breath was loud and ragged, his shoulders shaking.

My God, thought Emma. He’s crying.

Her eyes shimmered with tears—he looked more alone in this moment than any other she could recall. He was not standing regally, staring at the sky, like she had found him numerous times before, lost in thought. These thoughts devoured him, debilitated him, the enormity of them so strong he could not stand, or even sit. He was broken and had locked himself in his room until he could fix himself again.

Emma closed the door quietly. She glided to the bed, laying behind him. Emma nuzzled her head against the back of Leon’s shoulders, hiding the wave of emotions hitting her at once. Leon gasped, tensing.

“Don’t be alone like this. Please…let me stay with you.” Emma hoped she wasn’t pushing him too hard. After a moment, she heard a reply.

“You’ll stay with me…like this?”

With one hand, Emma grazed the back of Leon’s head, scratching lightly. She draped an arm around Leon’s torso, finding his clinched hand, laying her fingers on top of his. Slowly, Leon’s body unfurled at Emma’s touch. His sighs became a series of baritone purrs, a rhythmic buzz releasing stress and nerves.

Emma sensed a need for Leon to collect himself. She pressed her forehead against the back of his neck and hugged him from behind. The duo breathed in sync with one another, finding mutual peace in the stillness of the room. Eventually, Leon turned to face Emma, burying his head in the crook of her neck.

“You always find me. The real me.”

Emma sighed, threading her fingers in Leon’s hair. “Seeing Charles like that must have triggered memories for you.” A silence hung in the room as Emma continued to stroke the back of Leon’s head. Finally, Leon murmured, “Yeah, it did. But…I’m fine now. How was the rest of the gala?”

It was a classic Leon move—pivoting the conversation from himself. Emma moved slightly away; Leon leaned towards Emma, missing her warmth. Emma put a hand up between them.

“Don’t try to distract me, love.” Emma stared intently at Leon, taking his wandering hand away from her waist. “You’re not fine. You pretend you are, but those days still affect you. How could they not?” Emma brushed away locks of unruly hair covering Leon’s eyes. “You always wake up before dawn. An instinct learned through hard labor I suppose.” Emma stopped briefly as Leon’s eyes widened. “Every time Silvo comes to the palace, you flinch at the sound of his jangling jewelry. Does the sound remind you of the chains you wore?” She heard Leon catch his breath, his body still with shock. “Whenever Sariel talks with a group of children, you always stand in front of him. Is it so they won’t be scared by seeing the whip he carries?”

“I...I do that?” Leon’s voice shook slightly. Emma closed the distance between them, caressing a cheek with the pad of her thumb. “You do. You’re also the only prince that rides a horse without a riding crop.”

“Physical pain doesn’t motivate. It teaches fear, nothing more.” Leon’s voice was harsh. Emma unconsciously rubbed Leon’s ribs, which bore subtle signs of unhealed whip marks. “Charles knows that truth.”

“And now Charles is away from that fear.” Emma pulled Leon close, arms encircling him.

“Charles was all but a slave. Here, in Rhodolite.” Leon’s voice shook with frustration. “For every boy like Charles, there are countless others. I can’t…I can’t protect them all.”

“It’s not just you protecting people. You have a pack of brothers and friends wanting to help. Men who did help tonight—Charles was saved by you, but he has a warm bed tonight thanks to Rio, a full belly and a potential family thanks to Yves, and he is no longer under the thumb of that Duke thanks to Jin and Nokto.” Emma cradled Leon’s face between her hands. “And you may not want to hear this, but I bet Chevalier has a plan for stopping elites like the Duke from taking advantage of people like Charles.” Wanting to lighten the mood, Emma added. “If not, Clavis’ traps will finally be put to good use for those elites.”

Leon’s booming laugh echoed in Emma’s ears. “Yves will appreciate that.”

How Emma missed Leon’s laughter. But, Emma felt the need to press her point. “Yves would also appreciate you talking to him more. Jin too. It’s not good to keep things bottled up inside.” Emma’s voice was gentle. “And I’ll always be here if you want to talk.”

Leon absently rubbed Emma’s lower arm. After a while, he quietly uttered. “I’m sorry.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry—“

“I should have gotten you that bracelet.” Leon’s fingers caressed the inside of Emma’s wrist.

“What are you talking about?”

“The merchant had a matching bracelet for your ring.” Leon gestured to the silver ring on Emma’s hand. “It had a silver plate you could engrave an inscription onto. The plate was held by a chain. I…couldn’t bear the look of it.” Leon held Emma’s hand tightly. “It reminded me of the insignia bands slaves wore on their wrists.”

Emma gasped. This was the first time since her time as Belle Leon volunteered information about his childhood. “I told you I never knew my actual name before assuming Prince Leon’s identity. I had a number though. Fourteen. Marked on that insignia on my wrist.”

“Leon…” Emma held Leon tightly, the warmth of her touch telling him she was there for him. And with that, Leon found himself speaking. A trickle of words at first, then a flood. Memory after memory of his early childhood tumbled out, like the rocks he rolled out of the quarries. Leon spoke until exhaustion overtook him and Emma both.

…

Emma woke the next day to the sounds of birds chirping. Light poured through the windows, the sun well above the horizon. Emma turned to see Leon asleep, an arm wrapped tightly around her.

Emma smiled. For the first time, Leon slept past dawn. The healing had begun.

#ikemen prince #ikepri #ikemen prince leon #ikepri leon #ikemen prince nokto #ikemen prince yves #ikemen prince sariel #fanfic writing #boy this story hung out in my drafts cause I kept crying while writing #Leon please don’t just stare at the sky. Talk. You need to. Hence this story.#ikemen prince jin

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