Opinion | ChatGPT vs. Me: Who Will Write a Better Beach Read?

What makes a beach read a beach read? Is it an escapist subject matter? A frothy tone? Or is any book you read on a beach automatically a beach read?

I’m the author of seven novels and one short-story collection, and I have no idea what the answer is to these questions. But in an attempt to figure them out, I’ve agreed to participate in an experiment, and I hope you’ll join me.

I’ve put together a list of some of my favorite elements of summer, along with other topics I like to write about. Please vote on which items you would most want included in a summery short story — your ideal beach read — and submit your own suggestion, too. I’ll then write a story that includes the top three vote getters and two elements I choose from readers. And because it’s 2024 and life is now weird all the time, so will ChatGPT. Which will help us answer another pressing question: What’s the difference between human and machine writing?

Both stories will be the same length (1,000 words), and both will incorporate the same five prompts. ChatGPT, which will be told to write in my style, will complete its story in a few seconds; I’ll complete mine in a few weeks.

I’m curious about whether, in its current iteration, ChatGPT can write fiction I’d want to read or aspire to write. Can it write like me specifically? What does writing like me even mean? I’m one of the many fiction writers whose novels were used, without my permission and without compensation, to train ChatGPT. (I confess that I was offended in one way that five of my books were used and offended in a different way that two of them — the two that sold the least and received the worst reviews — weren’t.) Groups of fiction writers have sued OpenAI, which developed ChatGPT, for copyright infringement. The New York Times has sued Microsoft and OpenAI over the use of copyrighted work.

So it may go without saying that in this contest, I’m rooting for myself; I’m Team Human, and I’m hoping to honorably defend my species. But as with the steel-driving John Henry and the chess-playing Garry Kasparov before me, the outcome is unknown in advance. Maybe fiction writers’ jobs are in danger, or maybe there’s some ineffable quality, similar to the transcendent quality of a beach read, that still separates a story told by a person from a story told by a computer.