Text: Solveig Hansen in collaboration with ChatGPT, 2025

What if your writing could move beyond just facts and headlines, and start to touch the heart? That’s the journey I’m on — transitioning from factual, reporter-style writing to literary nonfiction, with some creative help from artificial intelligence (AI).

Posts in the “Going literary” series: Going literary with AI: Intro (this post) | Throughline, theme, voice | Reflection and expansion | Interiority | From blog post to essay | The observer’s eye | From observation to story | Where facts meet story

In this post:

How can AI help in the transition?

Is it cheating to use AI?

Before and after: The genesis of an author (my original post and ChatGPT’s rewrite)

“I feel I have a book in me.“ Eh… not really.

That was the title of my very first post in this blog back in 2016. I wrote about overcoming my resistance to write by committing to daily blogging — going from nine posts a year to more than a hundred. I called that resistance the birth pangs of stories still unborn.

My conclusion at the time? I wasn’t destined to be a novelist. My attention span is too short for that. “I might have e-book singles in me,” I wrote.

So, a decade later, has my creative mindset changed?

I’m still an avid blogger. My posts are more pointed, and I occasionally write for a local newspaper. And no — I still don’t have a book in me.

But like back then, I feel the urge to evolve and move from the clarity of factual writing into the depth of literary nonfiction. This time I will use ChatGPT as my writing partner as I learn how to write with more reflection, more emotion, more voice.

The difference?

Factual: Here’s what AI can do for writers.

Literary: Here’s what happened when I brought AI into my writing life — and how it helped me sharpen my voice.

ChatGPT reassured me: “You’re not leaving your reporter’s skill behind. You’re writing the next chapter.”

How can AI help in the transition?

I’ve used ChatGPT in my daily writing for quite a while now — to suggest content, structure, and angles for articles, or to polish the language in a rough draft. It’s simply part of my writing routine.

But I never use AI-generated content on its own. I don’t ask it to write something from scratch and then publish it. Instead, I feed it my draft — my voice, my ideas — and let it respond. What I get back are suggestions. It’s more like a conversation than a command. A partner for brainstorming.

So I asked if ChatGPT could help me make the transition to a literary nonfiction writer. “Absolutely,” it answered. “Transitioning from a factual or journalistic writer into a literary nonfiction writer is both a craft and a mindset shift.” Would I like it to look at a sample?

I showed it one of my blog posts, called The genesis of an author. Or not, and asked for its opinion. I promptly received an analysis back — with strengths, room for improvement, and a few sharp nudges:

“The ideas are rich, but the flow meanders slightly. You might consider tightening or grouping related ideas more clearly.”

“If you’re thinking of turning it into an essay or article, especially for a wider audience (like a literary magazine, creative writing outlet, or essay collection), you’ll want to shape it with a more deliberate structure and a slightly clearer through-line.”

“It’s a promising step toward becoming an author, not just because of what it says about writing, but because of how it says it: perceptively, carefully, and with soul. If this is the genesis, it’s already begun.”

I soaked up the comments like a dry sponge. But when I tried rewriting the post with a more literary tone, I stalled. So I asked ChatGPT to show me what it might look like as a short reflective essay.

That’s when I began to see what AI could actually do for my writing. It wasn’t just about tightening up grammar or offering synonyms. It helped me clarify structure, sharpen my voice, and stretch the language — with more rhythm, tone, metaphor, and emotional layering. These are the small shifts that help move my writing toward something more literary.

Here’s an example from the “before and after” blog posts below:

Factual: His hunger is both physical and mental, and at one point, he almost eats his pencil. Occasionally, he earns a little money by selling an article to a newspaper.

Literary: He sells the odd article to newspapers, clutches his pencil stub like a lifeline, and almost eats it in desperation.

This one sentence showed me how much tone, image, and rhythm could transform a flat line into something alive.

I rewrote and we discussed again. And somewhere in that back-and-forth…

As ChatGPT put it: “You bring the spark and the voice, and I help fan the flame a little.”

The final piece was still me — just more me. This is how I want to write, I thought, with or without AI.

But I can’t help but wonder: Am I cheating by using AI?

Is it cheating to use AI?

The question lingers, especially now that I’m trying to write with more depth, more feeling. When I ask ChatGPT for help and the result comes back sharper, more layered, more… me — I sometimes pause. Is this still my work?

Here’s how I see it:

I don’t ask AI to write for me from scratch. I don’t publish something it made without input. I write a rough draft — my voice, my thoughts, my structure — and then I bring it into the conversation. I ask for suggestions, alternatives, or ways to go deeper. Sometimes it offers something I hadn’t considered. Sometimes it says something better than I can — but only because I showed it where I wanted to go.

To me, that’s not cheating. That’s working with a tool. A very responsive, smart one — but still a tool.

Here’s how I understand it:

Not cheating:

– Using AI to brainstorm ideas, clarify structure, or refine phrasing — much like a thesaurus, style guide, or helpful colleague.

– Asking for inspiration, and then rewriting until the voice is unmistakably mine.

– Being transparent (when it matters) that AI was part of the process.

– Treating AI suggestions as raw material, not a finished product.

Cheating would be:

– Letting AI do the whole job, without personal input, thought, or revision.

– Passing off AI-written content as completely original — especially in a context where authenticity matters.

– Ignoring rules or expectations (like in publishing, school, or journalism) that prohibit AI use.

The bottom line? AI is a tool — like a pencil, like a word processor, like an editor. The ethics depend on how you use it. If it helps you think better, write better, learn more — and you still own the final product — then it’s a collaboration, not a shortcut.

So no, I don’t think it’s cheating.

What I’m doing is listening more carefully to my own work — and letting something outside me hold up a mirror. I still write every word. I just get to write it with more clarity, more play, more courage. And much faster.

That’s not cheating. That’s growth.

Before and after: The genesis of an author

To show what this collaboration with AI really looks like, here’s the blog post I originally shared with ChatGPT — followed by the reimagined, more literary version it helped me shape.

The content is the same. The voice is still mine. But the tone, rhythm, and structure? That’s where the shift starts to show.

The genesis of an author. Or not.

Text: Solveig Hansen

“It was in those days when I wandered about hungry in Kristiania, that strange city which no one leaves before it has set its mark upon him.”

This is the famous opening line in Knut Hamsun’s Hunger (1890), a psychological novel that describes the painful birth of a writer. The narrator in the novel is an unnamed man wandering the streets of Kristiania (the former name of Oslo), a struggling writer trying to hold onto both his dignity and sanity — and his precious pencil stub. His hunger is both physical and mental, and at one point, he almost eats his pencil. Occasionally, he earns a little money by selling an article to a newspaper. In the book, he recounts his experiences during his walks and encounters.

I think any aspiring writer can relate to the drive inside that anonymous writer. He’s craving the act of writing — and recognition, I suppose.

To describe “the whisper of the blood and the pleading of the bone marrow” should be the goal of modern literature, according to Hamsun. And with Hunger, he showed how. A young man’s desperation to become a writer became a novel about the desperation to become a writer — and we look into his mind and feel exactly what he feels.

We, the readers, expect a lot from writers. We want them to entertain us, inform and explain, move us, solve complex crimes, and write killer endings that make us nod in agreement and say, “That’s exactly how it had to end.”

As much as I love reading, I’m even more curious about how stories are conceived. What finally triggers the moment of genesis — that exact point where creator meets creation and there is light? How much struggle does it take to find “the right composition of words that create joyous magic, make you feel as if you are in that smoky blues joint or experiencing the morning atmosphere as the city wakes up and gets ready for a new day” — to quote myself.

I know this much: writing is damn hard work. Hamsun’s starving protagonist nearly loses his mind and eventually signs on with a ship, leaving the city behind. Any writer will tell you that the only way to write is to sit down and write — not wait for inspiration to strike. It requires discipline and practice.

“Inspiration is for amateurs. The rest of us just show up and get to work.” Painter Chuck Close said that.

I’ve often thought I’d like to spend 24 hours out in the streets of a big city, just to observe as it wakes up, gets busy, fills with people and cars, slows down again, goes to sleep — and wakes up once more. Then I’d grab a cup of coffee and a Danish, go home, and write about it all. Maybe not a “whisper of the blood and the pleading of the bone marrow” type of piece — but still.

It could be the genesis of an author.

Or not.

I might not be hungry enough.

The genesis of an author. Or not.

Text: Solveig Hansen / ChatGPT

“It was in those days when I wandered about hungry in Kristiania, that strange city which no one leaves before it has set its mark upon him.” — Knut Hamsun, Hunger (1890)

There’s something about that opening line that won’t leave me alone. Hamsun’s Hunger isn’t just the story of a starving man — it’s the fever dream of someone trying to become a writer before he even knows what it means to be one. He wanders the streets of Kristiania — now Oslo — stomach empty, brain buzzing, soul stretched thin. He sells the odd article to newspapers, clutches his pencil stub like a lifeline, and almost eats it in desperation. It’s grotesque. It’s sad. It’s strangely beautiful.

And it’s familiar — not in the literal sense (thankfully, I’ve never tried to eat a pencil), but in the quiet, persistent ache of wanting to write something that matters. Hamsun’s narrator is unnamed, which feels right. He could be anyone. Maybe he’s all of us who’ve ever sat staring at a blank page, trying to conjure something out of nothing, hoping this next sentence will be the one that unlocks the rest.

He’s not just hungry for food. He’s hungry for meaning. For a voice. For recognition. For a reason.

The romantic lie and the working truth

There’s this idea, still floating around, that writing begins with inspiration — that some divine wind hits you at a sidewalk café and the perfect first line appears like magic in your coffee foam. Maybe that happens sometimes. But mostly, writing begins with showing up. Painter Chuck Close said, “Inspiration is for amateurs. The rest of us just show up and get to work.” I think that applies to writing too.

I’ve learned this much: Writing is not just passion, it’s repetition. It’s sitting down — again — even when nothing brilliant shows up. Especially then.

Still, I daydream. I imagine spending 24 hours in a city, just walking. Watching it rise and fall, breathe and buzz. Sitting on benches. Eavesdropping in cafés. Watching shadows shift and lights flicker on. Then I’d come home, brew some coffee, and write. Not a masterpiece, maybe not even something publishable, but something true.

Would that moment be the genesis? Maybe. Or maybe it would just be a note in the margin of the long process of learning how to write.

Hunger, drive, and the quiet beginning

Hamsun once said the aim of modern literature should be to describe “the whisper of the blood and the pleading of the bone marrow.” That’s a tall order. But I think it gets to something real: the raw, internal pull toward expression. The voice that says, Write this down. Even if it doesn’t come out perfect. Even if no one reads it. Even if you’re not sure yet what it means.

We expect a lot from writers. To move us, entertain us, surprise us. To explain the world or escape it. But before any of that, there’s just a person trying to make sense of something — even if it’s just the quiet rhythm of a city waking up.

So I think about that genesis often. What starts it? A line? A walk? An emptiness? A hunger?

I’m not sure. Maybe I’m not hungry enough. Or maybe, like all writers, I already am.

Image: Gerd Altmann/Pixabay