“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 | From blog post to essay | The observer’s eye | From observation to story (this post) | Where facts meet story

Text: Solveig Hansen in collaboration with ChatGPT, 2025

What’s the story?

In my previous post in the “Going literary with AI” series, The observer’s eye, I learned to practice observation — not interpret yet, just notice. ChatGPT, my writing partner and coach, reminded me it didn’t have to be about big things. Even someone folding a napkin slowly could become the anchor for an entire story or essay.

But what’s the story, I wondered?

I chose this moment that I had jotted down in my always-present notebook:

“A dad and his baby son at the mall, having a conversation in baby language. Dad checks his phone and says in his softest daddy voice: Still 2–0 to Manchester United.”

ChatGPT called it sweet, but maybe a little too light. “Find one with more emotional ambiguity,” it suggested.

“How do we know that the baby will not grow up and say about his dad, ‘My dad was a ManU fan’?” I asked.

It then offered this tiny draft of a story, not to replace mine, but to show what the moment could become:

The Scorekeeper

The baby babbled nonsense in the mall’s fluorescent glow, arms waving like a tiny conductor. His father, phone in hand, bent low and said in a soft, slow voice, “Still 2–0 to Manchester United.”

The baby gurgled back, unaware the score wasn’t just a game but a thread weaving them together.

Years later, the boy would remember that phrase, the gentle cadence of his dad’s voice, and say, “My dad was a ManU fan.”

Not because the score mattered, or the team, but because in that moment, his father had spoken to him in a language of care — a small ritual anchoring their bond. –––

I like the story, but the baby won’t remember that exact moment. However, the father and son will probably share other football moments as the years pass by. Growing up, the boy will remember how safe he felt with his father — their moments, their memories, their time together. And he’ll say, “My father was a ManU fan.”

So what’s the story? Can I write one myself?

ChatGPT encouraged me to try — and then reflect on what it felt like to write.

Me: What if I can’t find a story?

ChatGPT: Then that’s the story.

I try…

A story called Gooooal!!! sneaks in — about the boy’s first score, arms in the air… That’s all I get.

And honestly, I feel a little discouraged.

Sometimes a moment is just that: a moment. Like a snapshot in my camera roll – sweet, fleeting, not asking for more. At least, that’s my conclusion.

Or… am I being a little defensive?

When I started the “Going literary with AI” series, I said I wanted to move from factual writing to more literary nonfiction. Well, I didn’t exactly become a fiction writer, but I did learn the tools – through-line, theme, voice, reflection, interiority. I learned how to pause, observe and hold a moment without rushing to explain it.

I’ve started to notice what ChatGPT calls the hinge — that place where something small, like a glance or gesture, starts to feel like it means something more. I’ve practiced wondering aloud on the page. That feels like something.

My next post will be the final one in this series. I’ll return to where I began: factual writing. But this time, I’ll bring everything I’ve learned with me — and try to apply it to a nonfiction piece.

I was still curious about what the story could be, though. “What would your version of the ‘Gooooal!!!’ story be”? I asked ChatGPT.

Here it is:

Gooooal!!!

He was six when he scored his first goal — a scuffed kick across the schoolyard, the ball barely making it past the makeshift goalie. Arms shot up, not in triumph, but instinct. Something he’d seen before.

On the sidelines, his dad clapped once, then twice. “Still 2–0 to Manchester United,” he said softly, grinning.

It wasn’t a reference. It was a ritual.

Later, in the car, his father handed him a juice box like a medal.

They didn’t talk about the goal. They didn’t have to. The boy stared out the window, still buzzing, and thought: we keep score in different ways. –––

Yeah…

Illustration: Aurel Cham/Pixabay