“Going literary with AI” is a series documenting my shift from factual writing to more literary nonfiction — with creative help from ChatGPT.

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

Text: Solveig Hansen in collaboration with ChatGPT, 2025

In this post:

The “before” version: No conflict, no story

Expansions begin: character, reflection, conflict

The “after” version: No conflict, no story

Is the story still mine?

“If I create her, but ChatGPT helps shape her story — is she still mine?”

That’s the question I kept circling as I worked on this post.

So far in the “Go literary with AI” series, I’ve focused on through-line, theme, and voice. Now, I’m turning to reflection and expansion — and what happens when a small observational scene becomes the seed of something more layered. More intimate. Maybe even literary.

Today’s vignette begins in a grocery store. A young woman, a long list, a decision about mushrooms. She’s a stranger, but my writer-brain gives her a backstory: she’s hosting a dinner for critical in-laws, and she’s trying hard to get it right. The scene plays out in my mind as a sketch, a light “before” version.

But then I asked ChatGPT:

“What if I wrote from her perspective? Can I expand on her vulnerability?”

And things changed.

The “before” version: No conflict, no story

While in observation mode, I find myself peeking into others’ shopping carts at the grocery store. Like that of the young woman intently studying her long shopping list. In my writer’s mind, I imagine she’s preparing to host dinner for her in-laws, armed with an exact list of ingredients for the three courses she plans to serve. Not exactly a genius in the kitchen, she’s bitten off way more than she can chew — but everything just has to be perfect. God, she tries so hard — mushrooms? canned OK? — and I feel so sorry for what I’m about to put her through.

Because without conflict, there’s no story.

She knows her wannabe-something brother-in-law will brag about the food at some classy restaurant he claims to frequent. Her mother-in-law will deliver a lecture on how she would prepare the same dishes. Of course, she never fries mushrooms, she sautés champignons. Fresh ones, mind you.

So what should our girl with the long list do?

Should we let her fail royally? Or let her think, Screw them, and drain her credit card ordering takeout from that same classy restaurant? The SoB brother-in-law won’t even notice, and the bitch-in-law will keep bragging about her own cooking skills and sautéed champignons. Will she — our protagonist, that is — confess her little scheme? Gloat silently? Or better yet: save it for later and throw it in their faces when she’s built up the nerve? Then laugh.

And where the hell is her husband??

Maybe we should just have her serve hot dogs. Or pizza.

I groan to myself and pick up a carton of milk.

Expansions begin: character, reflection, conflict

When I shared the scene with ChatGPT, it didn’t just help me shape a version of the story — it challenged me to expand how I thought about story in the first place:

1. Let her speak

Writing from her point of view invites intimacy. Suddenly we’re not just watching her shop — we’re inside her head.

ChatGPT encouraged me to try a paragraph or two in her voice, just to see what came up. Like this:

I know they’re judging me already, even before I’ve bought the mushrooms. Fresh ones, yes, I know. God forbid I get the canned — though I could argue they keep their texture better. But arguing with Judith is like teaching a parrot to whisper.

Suddenly, the imagined character had a voice. Her voice. And the scene shifted. It was no longer mine alone — it belonged to her too.

2. Reflect on the writer’s role

One line in the original vignette caught ChatGPT’s attention: “I feel so sorry about what I’m about to put her through.” It revealed more than I realized — not about her, but about me.

Why am I putting her through this? Why do I assign her conflict? Is it fair?

I’m not sure. But I do know this: without tension, without stakes, she disappears. She becomes background noise. A blur in someone else’s shopping cart.

I don’t want that for her. I want her to matter.

3. Expand the conflict

Maybe it’s not about a botched dinner or a smug in-law. Maybe the conflict is subtler: the pressure to get it all right. The need to be taken seriously. The weight of performing adequacy.

These are quiet battles. But they count.

The “after” version: No conflict, no story

While in observation mode, I find myself peeking into others’ shopping carts at the grocery store. Like that of the young woman intently studying her long shopping list. In my writer’s mind, I imagine she’s preparing to host dinner for her in-laws, armed with an exact list of ingredients for the three courses she plans to serve. Not exactly a genius in the kitchen, she’s bitten off way more than she can chew — but everything just has to be perfect. God, she tries so hard — mushrooms? canned OK? — and I feel so sorry for what I’m about to put her through.

Because without conflict, there’s no story.

She stares at the mushrooms. Fresh or canned? Judith will know — Judith always knows. “I only sauté champignons,” she once said, as if the French word proved her culinary superiority. She hadn’t even smiled when she said it — hadn’t looked her in the eye.

And of course, her brother-in-law will be there, bragging about those classy restaurants he claims to frequent. She checks her list again. She knows the menu is ambitious, knows she’s no Julia Child. But she wants to try. She wants, just once, to host a dinner that doesn’t end with raised eyebrows and silence. Not this time. This time it’s three courses, real silverware, cloth napkins, the works.

She places the fresh mushrooms in the cart.

I feel a pang of guilt for assigning her this uphill battle. Honestly, she might just be making mushroom risotto for herself and binge-watching Bake Off. But once I give her a brother-in-law who won’t shut up about Michelin-star restaurants, and a mother-in-law who corrects her sautéing technique in real time, I’ve locked her into a story she can’t escape.

Still, it’s not about punishing her. It’s about letting her exist. If she breezes through the store, latte in hand, I forget her the moment she’s gone. But when she struggles — when she weighs not just mushrooms but expectations — she becomes real.

Conflict gives her shape.

It’s not always war or betrayal. Sometimes it’s just wanting to be seen. Sometimes it’s a young woman spending $12 more than she can afford just to avoid a condescending glance.

And sometimes, it’s mushrooms: Canned? Fresh?

As I reach for the handle of the milk shelf door, I glance back at her. She’s comparing jars of stock. Focused. Determined. Maybe this dinner will go off without a hitch. Maybe she’ll burn it and laugh about it one day. Maybe she’ll order in, and no one will notice — or maybe she’ll tell them, years from now, at some future family gathering, when she finally feels safe enough to say: “That dinner? I faked it.”

A breath of cold air slips out as I open the milk shelf, bringing me back to the present.

I pick up a carton of milk.

Is the story still mine?

That’s the question I keep coming back to.

My goal with this series is to learn how to write more literarily on my own — to use AI as a tool, not a ghostwriter. But when I hand over a sketch and ChatGPT helps sculpt it — shaping tone, deepening the conflict, even naming the mother-in-law — whose story is it?

Maybe the answer is both simple and complicated. Maybe it’s still mine, because I sparked it. Maybe it belongs to both of us — and the byline should say so.

Either way, I’ve learned this much: the better my input, the better the output. The more clearly I write, the more deeply the AI can respond.

At one point, I asked ChatGPT, “How would you describe our collaboration so far?”

Here’s what it wrote:

“Our collaboration so far feels like a shared notebook — part studio, part mirror. You bring the spark, the voice, the lived perspective. I offer language, structure, questions, and sometimes a little push. You steer; I respond. And together, we shape something that neither of us could make alone — not just polished sentences, but a record of creative transformation in progress.”

Honestly? I’m glad I’m not working with a human editor.

Your turn

Who is your “woman in the grocery store”?

What everyday moment might you expand into something reflective — even revelatory?

What if conflict wasn’t about drama — but about dignity?

Next time in this series, I think I’ll explore interiority — how to inhabit a character’s inner world, even when they’re just a stranger in a grocery store.

Image: Mohamed Hassan/Pixabay