ChatGPT and a Journey through Several Writing Styles

I want to take you on a little journey with me and ChatGPT.

It all started with me pasting the contents of a short story and asking it to evaluate the grammar. It responded that the grammar was fine, but offered a few suggestions.

Then things took an interesting turn. The following exchange shows my attempts at getting ChatGPT to write a passage of prose in differing styles. We’ll skip the first few steps to the point where the passage no longer resembles what I had originally written. I asked ChatGPT to rewrite the passage in a “dark” style. We’ll use the following result as a starting point.

Here it is:

As I stepped into the dimly lit house, my eyes struggled to adjust to the darkness. The elderly woman, still gripping my shoulder, led me through the foyer and into the larger room. The smell of dampness and decay grew stronger as we moved deeper into the house. The room was sparsely furnished, with an old couch, a couple of chairs, and a few dusty shelves along the walls. In the center of the room stood a large wooden chest, its lid half-open, revealing a pile of papers and what looked like old photographs.

The woman gestured for me to sit on one of the chairs while she shuffled over to the chest. She began to rummage through the papers, muttering to herself under her breath. I couldn’t make out what she was saying, but her tone was anxious, almost fearful.

I was starting to feel uneasy myself. I wondered if I should just leave and forget this strange encounter, but something about the woman’s demeanor made me hesitate. She seemed so desperate for my help, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to her story than I could see.

Finally, she pulled out a worn envelope and thrust it towards me. “Please,” she said, her voice trembling. “You must help me. You’re the only one who can.”

I took the envelope and examined it. The handwriting was elegant and precise, but the ink had faded with age. The name on the front was unfamiliar to me: “Maryanne Sinclair.”

“I don’t understand,” I said, looking up at the woman. “Who is Maryanne Sinclair?”

The woman’s eyes widened, and a look of horror crossed her face. “You don’t know?” she whispered. “Oh, God, they’ve really done it. They’ve erased her from everyone’s memory except mine.”

I was thoroughly confused now, but the woman was in no condition to explain. She seemed to be on the verge of tears. “Please,” she said again, her voice pleading. “Take the envelope. Find Maryanne Sinclair. You’re the only one who can bring her back.”

I didn’t know what to make of this, but I felt a sudden surge of empathy for the woman. She seemed so lost and alone, and if there was anything I could do to help, I knew I had to try.

“I’ll take the envelope,” I said, tucking it into my pocket. “But can you tell me more? Who is Maryanne Sinclair? Why do you think I can help?”

The woman shook her head, her eyes flickering with fear. “I can’t say more,” she whispered. “They’re listening. They’ll find out. Just promise me you’ll try.”

I nodded, feeling more bewildered than ever. As I stood up to leave, the woman gripped my arm with surprising strength. “Be careful,” she hissed. “They’re watching you now.”

With that, she released me and shuffled back into the shadows of the house. I made my way back outside, feeling a chill run down my spine. What had I gotten myself into? And who was Maryanne Sinclair, and why was she so important?

Note that none of the above text looked anything like my original passage except for an old lady with secrets. My text had no reference to a “Maryanne Sinclair.” More in the next post. I promise that the further we go, the less wordy they become.

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From this point on, I’m just asking ChatGPT to rewrite the previous passage in different styles. Some of the responses were “okay”, but some were really interesting.


That was nice. Please give it another try. Make it darker and more sinister. Make it seem like the old woman may be untrustworthy. Try a gothic flare.


Certainly, here’s a darker and more sinister version with a gothic flare:

As the old woman beckoned you inside her cottage, the creaking of the door echoed through the dimly lit room. The air was thick with the musty scent of old books and decaying wood. Shadows danced along the walls as the flickering candle on the table cast eerie shapes across the room.

The old woman’s face was deeply lined, and her eyes seemed to glint with a strange, otherworldly light. She spoke in a whispery voice, barely above a whisper, her words dripping with a hint of malice.

“Come closer, my dear,” she said, gesturing for you to sit at the table. “I have something to show you.”

You couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. The old woman’s smile seemed too forced, her movements too deliberate. As she rummaged through a drawer, you caught a glimpse of something shiny and metallic glinting in the dim light.

Suddenly, a gust of wind howled through the chimney, causing the candle to flicker wildly. You jumped back in your seat, heart pounding with fear.

“Ah, don’t be afraid, my dear,” the old woman crooned. “It’s only the wind. I have something very special to share with you.”

But you couldn’t shake the feeling that the old woman was not to be trusted. Her home, filled with dark tomes and strange artifacts, hinted at a world far beyond your understanding. You wondered if you had stumbled upon something far more sinister than you had bargained for.

As the old woman turned back to face you, her eyes gleaming with an unearthly light, you couldn’t help but wonder if you would ever make it out of her cottage alive.

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That was even better. Let’s try again, but this time make it seem like it was written by H. P. Lovecraft.


As I walked down the dark and narrow path, the air around me grew colder and denser. The trees seemed to lean closer, as if whispering secrets of forbidden knowledge. Suddenly, I saw an old woman standing in front of me, her hunched form shrouded in a tattered cloak. Her eyes, though clouded with age, held a certain unearthly glow that sent a chill down my spine.

“Welcome, traveler,” she rasped, her voice like the scraping of a tombstone. “Do not be afraid, for I mean you no harm.”

But I knew better than to trust her words, for her appearance and mannerisms suggested otherwise. Her crooked fingers reached out to touch me, and I recoiled in horror, for I sensed an otherworldly aura emanating from her very being.

She then whispered, in a voice that seemed to come from beyond the veil of sanity: “Beware, for the darkness that surrounds us is not of this world. The stars are not right, and the old ones stir in their slumber. If you value your life, turn back now, for the horrors that await you are beyond imagining.”

And with that, she disappeared into the shadows, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the looming presence of the unknown terrors that lay ahead.

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Once more, this time in the style of Robert E. Howard.


The old woman hobbled towards me, her eyes like cold steel, and her voice like a hiss from the depths of hell. She spoke of ancient gods and forbidden secrets, and I could feel the weight of centuries bearing down on me. I could smell the stench of blood and hear the distant roar of battle, as if I were standing on the fields of war itself. She spoke of the darkness that lurked in the hearts of men, and the demons that walked among us. As she spoke, I could feel the hairs on the back of my neck rise, and I knew that I was in the presence of something primal and dangerous. I took a step back, but she followed, her eyes never leaving mine. And in that moment, I knew that I was powerless before her, that I was at the mercy of the ancient forces she commanded.

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Some of the authors I got it to mimic may be less familiar to modern audiences. This is one of them. If you have never read any Lord Dunsany, please do. :grinning:


I liked that a lot. Now let’s try the same passage in the style of Lord Dunsany.


The old woman hobbled down the cobblestone street, her tattered shawl trailing behind her like the tail of a tired serpent. She stopped in front of a small shop, peering through the dusty window at the strange objects on display. A bell tinkled as she pushed the door open, revealing a dimly lit interior filled with curiosities from distant lands.

The proprietor, a thin man with sharp features, glanced up from his ledger as the old woman approached. “Can I help you?” he asked, his voice as dry as parchment.

“I seek an item of great power,” the old woman said in a hushed tone. “Something that can change the course of destiny.”

The man raised an eyebrow, but said nothing as he led her deeper into the shop. He reached into a wooden case and retrieved a small, intricately carved box, placing it in the old woman’s gnarled hands.

“This is what you seek,” he said, his eyes glittering with a hidden knowledge.

The old woman opened the box, revealing a shimmering stone that seemed to glow with an inner light. She smiled a toothless grin and placed the stone in her pocket, leaving the shop without another word.

The man watched her go, his expression inscrutable, before returning to his ledger and the mysteries contained within its pages.

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Once again, in the style of J. R. R. Tolkien.


In a quiet corner of the Shire, in a village by the name of Hobbiton, there lived a curious old lady. Her name was Mrs. Maggot, and she was well known in those parts for her extensive knowledge of the local flora and fauna.

Her little house was nestled amidst a large garden, full of all manner of plants and herbs. She was often seen wandering among the rows, tending to her beloved flowers and whispering to them in the ancient Elvish tongue.

But though her neighbors looked upon her with a mixture of awe and suspicion, few dared to ask her the secrets of her arcane knowledge. For it was whispered that Mrs. Maggot had once traveled to far-off lands, where she had learned the hidden ways of magic and the tongues of strange creatures.

And so it was that, whenever a particularly thorny problem arose, the hobbits of Hobbiton would quietly make their way to her door, seeking her counsel and wisdom. For despite her eccentricities, Mrs. Maggot was known to be a font of good advice, and her words had a strange power to soothe troubled hearts.

Yet for all her kindness and learning, there was something about the old lady that gave one pause. Her eyes were deep and dark, and seemed to hold secrets that no one else could fathom. And sometimes, when the wind blew just so, the villagers could swear they heard her whispering strange words to the flowers, words that sounded almost like incantations.

For though Mrs. Maggot lived a quiet life, and rarely ventured beyond the borders of her garden, there was no doubt in the minds of those who knew her that she was possessed of an ancient and otherworldly power.



Again, in the style of George R. R. Martin.


The old woman’s eyes gleamed like shards of ice as she beckoned me to approach. Her voice was a low, gravelly rasp, and she spoke of ancient secrets and forbidden magic. I knew then that I had stumbled upon something dark and dangerous, and that the price of knowledge might be more than I was willing to pay.

She told me of a prophecy that foretold the coming of a great darkness, a time when the very fabric of reality would be torn asunder. She spoke of powerful sorcerers who would rise up to challenge this darkness, wielding spells that could level mountains and raise the dead. But she also spoke of those who would seek to use this power for their own gain, to enslave the weak and crush the innocent.

As I listened, I felt a chill creep up my spine. The old woman’s words seemed to echo in the darkness, and I wondered if I was in over my head. But I also knew that I had come too far to turn back now. So I steeled myself, and prepared to face whatever lay ahead.

For I knew that the fate of the world hung in the balance, and that only a select few had the power to change the course of history. I knew that I was one of those few, and that I would do whatever it took to protect the innocent and defeat the darkness.

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This one blew me away!


Once again, this time in the style of Shakespeare.


Hark! Upon a hill, there sat an aged crone,
Her wrinkled visage basked in moonlit glow,
Her bony hand did beckon and intone,
In dulcet tones, as if from long ago.

"I bid thee welcome to my humble abode,
Where shadows lurk and secrets do unfold.
But prithee, heed me well, for on this road
Many dangers lurk, and many tales are told.

Beware, dear traveler, the twists and turns,
For all is not as it may seem to thee.
The darkness hides many secrets and burns,
And oft times fate is cruel, as you shall see.

Yet, if thou hast the courage to press on,
And face the darkness with a steadfast heart,
Then great rewards may be thy future spawn,
And thou shalt have a tale to set apart.

So come, dear traveler, with a wary eye,
And let us see what fate may have in store.
For on this hill, beneath this starry sky,
Many mysteries lay waiting to explore."


I did a bunch more for less-know authors, but let’s end for now with this one :rofl:


Let’s move into a humorous lane and try it in the style of Jerry Seinfeld.


What’s the deal with this old woman, am I right? I mean, she’s all like, “I’ve been living here for 70 years and I know everything that goes on in this town.” Really? You know everything? Are you like the town’s omnipotent being or something? And why does she keep staring at me like that? I mean, I’m just trying to buy a muffin here, lady. But no, she’s giving me this look like I just insulted her mother or something. And what’s with the weird accent? Is she from another dimension or something? I don’t know, I think I’ll just grab my muffin and get out of here before she starts reciting the Necronomicon or something.

This one actually made me laugh. AI, making me laugh. I don’t know whether that’s funny or scary. Cheers!