“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 | Interiority (this post) | 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:
Observation gives information. Interiority gives interpretation.
Before and after: From observation to interiority
You can watch someone cook dinner — or feel the tension in their shoulders as they salt the soup. That’s what interiority is.
In my last post I imagined a young woman in a grocery store, prepping dinner for her hyper-critical in-laws. A small, quiet moment — but with high emotional stakes. She agonizes over mushrooms: canned or fresh?
There was conflict, but it was mostly surface-level. I watched her. I speculated. I gave a glimpse of her thoughts, but stayed at a narrative distance.
My writing partner and coach ChatGPT suggested I go deeper: let the story unfold from her perspective, even in third-person. Not a full rewrite into first-person, but a shift toward what fiction writers call interiority — when the inner life of a character becomes the frame for how the story is told.
Interiority doesn’t just show what happens — it shows what it means to the person it’s happening to.
Observation gives information. Interiority gives interpretation.
Observation describes:
She puts fresh mushrooms in the cart.
Interiority explains why it matters:
She chooses the fresh ones even though they’re twice the price — because she’s not just cooking, she’s proving something. To them. To herself.
This is the difference between watching someone and being inside the moment with them.
Before and after: From observation to interiority
To see the difference interiority makes, here are the “before” and “after” versions of the same scene. Both describe the same moment — but one stays outside her, and the other lets us in.
Before: From the outside
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.
…
After: From the inside
She stares at the mushrooms. Fresh or canned?
Canned would be easier — cheaper too — but Judith would notice. She always noticed. That pause Judith gave when she used the word “champignons” instead of mushrooms — just long enough to make you feel provincial. Just long enough to suggest, You’re trying, bless your heart. That wasn’t a compliment.
Her hand hovers. The fresh ones aren’t even great. Slimy, maybe. But she hears Judith’s voice anyway, the way she didn’t even smile last time she corrected her over her fried mushrooms — didn’t look her in the eye, just said it: “I only sauté champignons.” Like the accent would make the sting go down smoother.
She checks her list. Again.
She knows she’s no Julia Child. She’s not even a reliable home cook — but she’s read the recipes four times, watched the videos, made the timing chart. Three courses, cloth napkins, silverware that doesn’t match but at least isn’t plastic. She wants the evening to end without that silence. That slow clinking of cutlery while someone tries to compliment the lighting instead of the food.
She places the fresh mushrooms in the cart.
Read the whole story: No conflict, no story
…
The difference
- Judith’s presence becomes felt, not just described, and that shift pulls the reader closer. We don’t just understand her conflict — we feel its weight.
- We glimpse the young woman’s emotional logic (e.g., how silence feels more damning than criticism).
- Her internal stakes come into focus — not just whether the dinner goes well, but whether she feels seen.
- We add slight temporal layering: present moment (shopping), imagined future (telling the story), and past judgments (Judith’s tone) — all seen through her lens.
Why interiority matters
Interiority goes beyond emotion — it’s about uncovering meaning. It’s the secret ingredient that “salts the soup,” turning simple scenes into rich stories by revealing how a person understands and feels what’s happening, not just what’s happening itself. In literary nonfiction, interiority transforms plain description into something more relatable.
Want to try?
Observe: Pick a simple scene around you.
Example: A man stands at a bus stop, checking his watch and looking down the street. A small dog tugs on its leash nearby.
Write 3–5 factual sentences describing exactly what you see and hear.
Imagine: Now, write another 3–5 sentences from that person’s inner perspective.
Example: Maybe he’s worried about being late to an important meeting. His thoughts jump to the email he forgot to send this morning. The dog’s restless tugging feels like a reminder that time is slipping away.
What might he be feeling or thinking beneath the surface?
Reflect: Think of a story you’ve told yourself or others that felt “safe” or surface-level.
Example: You might say, “I just gave a quick update about my day,” but underneath, you felt anxious about how your boss would react to your report.
What emotions or conflicts did you leave out?
Rewrite: Add interiority by showing not just what happened, but what it meant.
Example: Instead of “I told my boss the project was on schedule,” try, “I carefully framed the update, hoping my words would hide the doubts gnawing at me.”
Show what it meant to the person living it.
Coming up…
I’ve been practicing interiority in fiction — but now it’s time to try it in nonfiction. Let my own inner voice guide the story, not just the facts. That’s what I really want to learn with this “Go literary with AI” series.
ChatGPT gave me this prompt:
Think of a time you told a “safe” version of a story — one you could laugh off, gloss over, or keep light. What’s the version you didn’t tell? What was happening underneath?
“I like it,” I told the AI. But when it asked me to give a short example or explain why it stuck with me… I didn’t have an answer.
And that’s exactly my learning point: to go one step deeper than observation. This is where the real work starts.
Maybe that’s a post in itself: The observer’s eye.
Photography taught me to see, to frame, to wait. Now I’m learning to apply that same seeing to language — not just to capture moments of life, but to interpret them.
Or maybe I’m just an observational writer? Still figuring that out.
Anyway, I’m a freelance writer trying to add depth to everyday stories. So I asked ChatGPT: “How do I write more literally about something as ordinary as afternoon tea?” And it gave me this:
Write a brief scene or vignette of afternoon tea — first, purely factual and sensory (3–5 sentences). Then immediately write a second version with interiority (another 3–5 sentences). Notice the shift.
Hmm…
Have you tried adding interiority to your writing? Share your experience in the comments!
Image: Mohamed Hassan/Pixabay
Z for short. 
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