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LLMs have vaulted from tech novelty to the forefront of the creative writing scene with unanticipated rapidity. What began as a series of experiments in natural language processing has evolved into tools like GPT-4, capable of drafting intricate narratives once believed to be the sole purview of human writers.
The expansion of capabilities directly correlates with the exponential growth of their datasets. These AI models now draw from a comprehensive global library of texts—covering every conceivable genre and style, written in numerous languages.
A simple query can now yield a poem in the style of a Renaissance sonneteer or a blog post with the informational density of a scholarly article—all through the breadth of learning that spans these multilingual writing samples.
The writing community's reaction to this tidal wave of change has been predictably polarized. While some writers regard these developments as tools that could enhance their craft, others see the encroachment of AI into creative territories as a threat to the profession. Doubt mingles with a deeper existential anxiety—an undercurrent of concern about the place of the traditional author in a landscape where machines can mimic, and in some domains, surpass human writing abilities.
As the capabilities of LLMs like GPT-4 expand, so too do their token limits—the fundamental units of text that these models can generate or process at one time. Each token can be as small as a piece of a word or as large as a whole word. Simply put, the token limit is the maximum stretch of text the model can handle in a single request. Originally, GPT-4's 8k and 32k token limit capped the creative process at shorter texts. Imagine writing a story and having to stop every few pages, losing the ability to refer back to your earlier words. This was the reality with lower token limits, where writers had to trim earlier parts or reduce them to summaries, leading to a loss of detail and continuity as the story grew. But with GPT-4, the token limit has surged to a staggering 128k, allowing for the construction of entire book chapters without hitting the data ceiling.
Advances in techniques like chaining contexts and the development of tools like LangChain have also been instrumental in sidestepping these limitations. Chaining contexts means linking discrete sections of text in a sequence, allowing for continuity despite token limits. Essentially, this method involves feeding the LLM a representative version of prior text, allowing it to 'remember' the story as it progresses, much like leaving breadcrumb trails to follow back through the narrative.
For retrieval-augmented generation, which enhances models with the ability to access and integrate external information, there are a variety of methods, such as:
Using JSON files to store and recall key plot points or character details.
Implementing external databases, both relational and non-relational, to pull from larger bodies of text.
Employing vector databases, which facilitate finding text with semantic similarities, thus understanding context beyond mere keywords.
These techniques can transform the way LLMs handle long-form text, giving them access to the equivalent of a story's 'back catalogue.'
Imagine an LLM authoring chapter 20 of a novel; with these tools, it could pull in essential narrative threads and character developments from the previous 19 chapters stored in these systems.
Implementing these advances makes the authorship of lengthy, complex texts by LLMs more feasible. The technology continues to evolve, with prospects of even larger context windows and more refined retrieval methods. As these systems improve, the AI's grasp on storytelling grows firmer, enabling it to wield the pen with increasing deftness and nuance.
The conversation about LLMs such as GPT-4 often circles back to one core question: Can these models truly originate new ideas, or are they confined to reassembling the mosaic of existing concepts they've been fed? It is clear that GPT-4 demonstrates proficiency in crafting complex storylines, drawing from its extensive training on a wide variety of texts. However, it's essential to recognize that these outputs are not born from an inner muse but synthesized through algorithms that analyze patterns in data.
Human creativity remains indispensable in elevating AI-generated text beyond mere competence to the realms of true artistic and literary merit. Human writers bring a nuanced understanding of narrative, emotional depth, and cultural context—qualities that machines have yet to replicate authentically. The human touch shapes and refines the raw material offered by LLMs, guiding them towards creations that resonate more deeply with readers.
Prompt engineering surfaces as both the art and science behind effective use of LLMs. A high-quality prompt can act as a beacon, directing the AI towards producing narrative gold. Conversely, a lackluster or unoriginal prompt might only yield content that feels formulaic and uninspired.
This disparity underscores the fact that the outcome of AI-generated writing depends significantly on the human input's originality. Creative individuals can harness the power of LLMs to spin unique and compelling tales, whereas those without that spark may find themselves with creations that lack distinction and fall into a sea of generic content.
Lastly, pondering the future, there's a palpable sense that the true singularity of human masterpieces may remain beyond the reach of AI—at least until the advent of Artificial General Intelligence (AGI). AGI, representing a level of machine cognizance comparable to human intelligence across all fields, would presumably bridge this creative gap. Until such a breakthrough occurs, the limit of AI in storytelling is a reality grounded in today's technological landscape. Until such a breakthrough occurs, the distinctive human capacity for inspiration, experience, and imagination will continue to serve as the vital element that infuses storytelling with a depth and resonance that AI, as it exists today, cannot achieve on its own.
Below is the first chapter of a futuristic science fiction novel, Celine, generated with GPT-4 employing both 8k and 32k token context windows. This sample provides a tangible insight into the model's long-form narrative capabilities and serves as a case study for AI-assisted creative writing.
Drip... drip... drip...
Each metallic drop, with its shimmering silver hue, descended slowly, hitting the cold, unyielding steel basin with a resonant sound. The echo reverberated through the vast expanse of the apartment, each sound wave marking the deliberate lapse of reality, as if a grand clock's pendulum swung, tocking away another fleeting second of borrowed time. In the stark, austere chill of the renovated uptown loft, Celine twitched reflexively. The sensation was sharp, like a jolt of electricity, as wires, frayed and sizzling, were violently yanked free from the back of her neck by her left hand. She tossed them carelessly aside.
There was pain, an intense, searing sensation, but it was a familiar sting, one that she had felt a thousand times or more. She swallowed hard, forcing back the urge to curse. The bath, once full to the brim with icy cubes, had lulled into a tepid resting state. Flecks of ice still bobbed on the surface, restlessly melting away into non-existence. Celine sucked in a shallow breath, her chest tightening as another wave of cold shot through her. It was enough to draw beads of perspiration on her bare skin.
With laboriously slow movements, she fixated her gaze on her right hand, now buried up to the wrist in the chilling water. Each digit was oddly blanched, a stark departure from their usual flushed pink state. She flexed her fingers, watching the muscles respond, albeit slowly. The confines of the makeshift bath had turned her skin into a pale canvas of blue-white marble, marred with the undercurrent of pronounced veins.
As if in slow motion, she hoisted a leg upwards, droplets of water cascading from the pallor of her skin. The water slid down her thigh, congregating around her knee and dripping from her toes. Shaking, she dropped her foot on the rim of the ironclad tub, her wet toes splattering droplets across the rough wooden floor.
Sliding to the edge of the tub, she steeled herself and, in one swift move, hoisted her other leg over the tub's edge. Now perched precariously on the lip of the tub, her body shivered uncontrollably, teeth clattering in protest. The frigidity, prolific and unrelenting, had seeped into her bones, chilling her from the inside.
Her sodden raven locks dripped rivulets down her skull, trickling down her bare shoulders, tracing a trail down her torso before ending their journey as droplets in the bathwater. One errant droplet found its way, seeping into the back of her ear, evoking a shivering tingle that crept down her spine.
As her feet met the rustic plank of the floor, the sensation of the wood seeping into her wet soles, she reached for the thick burgundy towel slung over a low-hanging beam. Muscles trembling, she drew it around herself, the coarse fibred fabric protesting against her trembling, sopping wet body. A shudder wound its way through her once more as she walked away from her watery wake, leaving a patterned pathway of wet footprints across the room.
The chapter presented serves as a clear indicator of the current state of AI-assisted writing, showcasing the capabilities and current fidelity with which models like GPT-4 can emulate human-authored content.
Readers may notice a certain level of repetition in diction, indicative of the model's tendency to favor certain expressions and linguistic patterns. Furthermore, the text could benefit from stylistic editing to introduce greater variety in paragraph composition and sentence structure—a testament to the continuing need for human oversight in curating and refining AI-generated content.
Nevertheless, it serves as an example of powerful writing capabilities, and calls into question how much of the text or novels we will be reading will be completely generated in the near future.
Underneath the harsh, almost blinding glare of the overhead accent lights, her reflection, sharp and vivid, glared back at her from the expansive floor-to-ceiling mirror across the room. The mirror's frame, ornate and gilded, seemed out of place in the modern setting.
The mirror. Mirrors, with their reflective surfaces and ability to capture every nuance, were never truly designed for the likes of the remodeled attic space that was her self-imposed fortress. This space was an architectural marvel, a mishmash of cold, gray concrete walls that stood tall and imposing, exposed steel beams that crisscrossed overhead, reclaimed rustic wooden floors that creaked with history, and all-glass windows that stretched from floor to ceiling, offering a panoramic, unobstructed view of the sprawling upstate expanse.
But it acted as a purposeful, jarring juxtaposition that she reveled in, a throwback to the stark transparency of a bygone era. The minimalism of the décor, accented with coveted, designer pieces like a Le Corbusier chaise longue, screamed the contradictions of her existence.
She was an aesthete in a world of anarchy.
"You really got yourself into it this time, Celine," she whispered softly, her voice resonating in the vastness of the loft, to her reflection. Her porcelain skin provided a stark contrast against the tangled mess of jet-black hair, wet and dripping, that cascaded around her slender shoulders. Youthful exuberance, evident in the softness of her cheeks and chin, was marred by the dangerous life she led. Her olive-green eyes, large and expressive, were bloodshot, the whites tainted with red veins, bearing witness to the countless hours spent peering into the depths of an invisible underworld woven from intricate code.
"Great, just great..." Her voice, smoky and sultry, filled the room as she grimaced, her reflection mirroring her disappointment in the profile of the freshly-burnt cartridge. It was completely used up, leaving her bereft. She had nothing left. Not a single cartridge to load into her sleek, state-of-the-art netrunner gear. The feeling of longing filled her. She nonchalantly discarded the cartridge, which then skittered across the floorboards.
She looked at herself one last time in the mirror, her eyes, fierce and unyielding, glared defiantly back. Chipped nails, painted black, combed through her hair, wracking through tangled locks that hadn't felt the soft bristles of a brush in days.
"You've been through worse," she reminded herself, her voice dripping with sarcasm, as a tired chuckle, raspy and low, twisted her lips into a sardonic grin. Her hand clasped the glistening curve of her profile, where cold, gleaming metallic implants meshed seamlessly against the soft skin of her neck. A fusion, a melding of the human with the digital - she was a walking testament to a world steeped in technological ambiguity.
Each of the cybernetic enhancements that crisscrossed Celine's body were etched with a constellation of tiny, overused interface ports. Each one was dotted with the telltale blackened marks of electrical stress, a silent sign of her relentless excursions into the Metaverse, the place where consciousness and code collided. They were the scars of a netrunner's life, like the track marks on the veins of a heroin addict.
In one shadowy corner of the expansive apartment, an antiquated relic hummed and flickered restlessly. An ancient cathode ray tube television - an obsolete token from a long-gone analog era - rested unceremoniously atop a bent metal table, its vignetted luminance standing apart against the sterile lines of the avant-garde floor lamp. Old CRT screens had a potent charm, a hypnotic trance-like effect that the modern, sleek flat-panels utterly lacked. A faint, yet persistent buzz filled the room, a high-frequency squealing from the vintage technology.
The television's glass surface roared to life, bathing the loft in an ambiguous spray of ethereal light, oscillating between an other-worldly, spectral coloration and a grating, unsettling static. Pixelated silhouettes danced across the convex screen.
Startled by the sudden flickering life of the television, Celine jolted from her contemplative stupor. It was a rare thing for the signal to find its way through the web of jammers and scramblers that littered the cityscape. "Guess the signal's back," she whispered. With a sharp turn from the mirror, Celine made her way across the loft, her attention captured by the resurrected broadcast as she came to stand before the glowing screen.
The newscast began, an array of panoramic shots from a dystopian world run by greedy corporations. Ruins of better times mingled with cloud piercing skyscrapers, wardens of a lost world placating their wretched citizens with promises of faux progress. A weighty voiceover filled the air, recounting tales spun up as corporate propaganda.
"...ensuring that the chaos of the pre-Corpocracy era remains a distant memory," the voiceover intoned, painting a picture of a dark past to highlight the supposed light of the present. "Thanks to Aeon, our streets are safe, our minds are clear, and our purpose is defined," the presenter recited, a script designed to reassure and placate. "Together, we're building a healthier tomorrow."
The scene transitioned to a family smiling around a dinner table, "But even in the healthiest society, the mind can be a battlefield. Introducing Citalomax, the latest in neural stabilizers. It curbs rebellious thoughts and aligns your mind with the path of progress. Embrace the tranquility that comes with true societal synchronization. Citalomax – peace of mind for the peace of the nation."
Then the screen went blank. Nothing but a spectral, pulsating bluish aura, flickering, then dissolving into a silent darkness that marked an abrupt end to the loud, unyielding episode that the broadcast had crammed into the quietness of the loft. The signal must have cut out.
Celine stared at the empty screen, her reflection distorted into a shadowy caricature of herself. A subtle scoff slipped past her lips as her olive-green eyes, filled with brazen defiance, bore into the ineffable void. "What a time to be alive," she quipped to the silence, "when the dystopian novels start suing us for stealing their plots." Her hand brushed off strands of damp hair from her face, her fingers accidentally grazing a metallic edge of an implant, the stark cold reality of it jolted her back to the present.
Celine dropped onto the Le Corbusier chaise longue in the center of the room, luxuriously sinking into the plush leather. She couldn't help but mock the corporation’s artful attempts at propagating fear, instilling paranoia. A barely audible snicker escaped her lips. It was storytelling's triumvirate of suspense, riddled with calculated gaps for audiences to fill in with their worst fears. It felt like the blurb of a trashy pulp sci-fi novel - even Orwell couldn’t have prophesied this one.
"We eat your fear for breakfast, corporate string puppets,” a soft, sarcastic chuckle followed, “and leave room for your dreams for dinner.” A slow, sardonic grin spread across her face. She flicked a non-existent speck of dust off her jeans.
"The corporations should patent this soap opera. It beats the brain-dead reality shows people can't seem to get enough of." She scoffed at her reflection in the dark television screen, pulling a face, her pert nose scrunched in theatrical disdain.
The Metaverse, this new augmented dimension hidden from ordinary civilians, was a den of vipers – some of them venomous rulers, some, fodder for the rulers. For all its grandeur, the interwoven digital world was always a step or two away from disarray. A rogue line of code, an audacious hacker, an easter egg meme - and the whole thing could spiral into pandemonium. It was a fearsome, exhilarating playground for anarchy and digital dominion. Here, the lines were drawn in pixelated sand: a relentless battleground where monolithic corporations erect firewalls and deploy algorithms to fortify their territories, and where the rebellious netrunners, the new age anarchists, weave through the labyrinth of networks to destabilize and defy.
And all she needed was another cartridge …
"And that’s another thing," she said to no one in particular, a shroud of thoughts clouding her face. She mused about the uncanny nature of the Metaverse. Sucked into the world with the promise of power and liberation, only to be ejected when the keys – the cartridges – were used up. It was that volatile gatekeeper that cold-bloodedly denied her freedom in her beloved chaos.
Resting her head against the leather, Celine allowed the sharp industrial lights to bathe her in its glow.
"Going to need another fix then, huh, " she sighed, the thought of facing her dealer causing her to cringe. The man wasn't simply distasteful; to her, he personified the very decay of their current existence—the vulture-like profiteers that thrived on the plight of people like her. A serpent in the Eden, a necessary evil in her unending pursuit of a rigged game.
"Oh, the places we'll go, and the debts we'll owe," she murmured, the words laced with a sardonic humor that didn't quite reach her eyes. The silence that followed seemed to stretch, waiting for her to fill it with decisions and actions, the lifeblood of her existence as a netrunner.
She let the thought of robbery—of her cartridge dealer, no less—dance tantalizingly at the edge of her consciousness. The rush of it, the sheer audacity. To snatch a treasure trove of cartridges, the keys to kingdoms within the metaverse, was a temptation that sparked a thrill in her veins. But then, like the ghost of a discarded subroutine, the idea dissolved into the ether of impracticality.
With a soft cluck of her tongue, she dismissed the notion. "Stability over momentary gain," she whispered.
Her supplier was a lifeline, a vein tapping directly into the pulsing heart of the metaverse. To jeopardize that would be to sever her own supply of blood, to invite anemia of the soul. No, Celine knew the rules of this game all too well. One didn't become a netrunner of her caliber by succumbing to the shortsighted whims of greed.
She pulled herself up from the chaise, her body still shivering as warmth slowly began to seep back into her limbs. Shaking off the dripping towel, she padded softly across the floorboards towards the wall-length closet at the far end of the loft. With every step, the sound of the metallic pitter-patter seemed louder, a sole arbitrator of the meandering silence punctuated by the soft hum of the still-switched-off television screen.
Amidst the tall, stony columns, the sight of the steel wardrobe stood in daunting contrast, its sleek exterior splashed intermittently with red and white swipes of aerosol paint, a crude yet intentional tribute to Basquiat’s wild style. The hulking structure stood tall, a utilitarian titan of minimalistic design masquerading as an art installation. The bold, abstract cruise cross 'X' of hardened steel served as the doors, opening outwards to reveal her unique collection of fashion pieces.
Celine smirked, touching the cool, lacquered steel with barely concealed affection.
Garmented appearances could so well be deceiving. In her world, the threads weaved together a narrative of identity, power, and subversion—her own form of camouflage in the concrete jungle.
She opened her wardrobe, the smell of the fresh cedar interior evoking a sense of calm as her eyes skimmed over the perfectly aligned clothing. Each piece in her possession, like silent partners in crime, held snippets of her personality and stories of countless operations.
With a sigh of decision, she reached for a dress - a Zepto Synthweave, custom made. Its material was a combination of function and fable, sophisticated yet bold; a blend of rigidity and fluidity. The smart-fabric, woven from carbon nano-yarns, throbbed and pulsated subtly to mimic the rhythm of her heartbeat as her hand approached.
The dress itself, colored a radiant ember-red, was a sleek canvas of subtle imagination, accentuating her body whilst concealing her distinct cybernetics. As she stepped into the outfit, the dress responded accordingly. It slid over her skin, adapting to the contours, draping over the curves of her waist before tapering off to the knee, its sleeve falling off one shoulder. It maneuvered its way past the bumps of her implants with fluid precision.
Decades in the future, yet some things remain the same - the thrill of slipping into a well-tailored dress, the way your heart somersaults as the fabric clings to the skin in an intangible embrace - hadn't lost its charm.
She focused softly on her reflection, her emerald eyes twinkling with a rare excitement as she admired her appearance. Sexy, dangerous, provocative, yet demurely sophisticated. A concoction that would throw most people for a loop - a powerful statement she reveled at making. Extraordinary, after all, was the new normal.
She dismissed the discomfort with an eye-roll, another hurdle that she had gotten stellarly good at overcoming. It was, as they say, just another day in her chaotic paradise. And with a final, approving look at her reflection, she slid into her favorite piece - her signature white Common Project Achilles low sneakers.
Even with the unspeakable opulence of her wardrobe, she always gravitated towards these sneakers. Their white leather, slightly worn out at the edges, still managed to hold onto their elegant charm, their golden engraved serial numbers gleaming.
Celine reached for the half-empty bottle on the side table - bitter-tasting bottom-shelf vodka. It was cheaper than water, the water supply being a neglected casualty in the ongoing tug-of-war between city maintenance and corrupt politics. Taps spewed lead-poisoned water, turning the life-giver into a silent killer. Each drop a venomous offering that the city's destitute were forced to drink.
As ironic as it was, she opted for the burning ethanol, making do with the taste. She'd used the last of her precious clean water for the ice bath, and now that water was spoiled with a netrunning discharge, a nausea-inducing cocktail of human grit and synthetic sputum. Her neurotransmitters swam amidst the grimy soup of mechanic grime, biological waste, and frigid bathwater. Classy, she thought, swishing the vodka before spitting into the basin. As repulsive as it was, life had a knack for not quite matching the aesthetics of a 3D holo-ad.
With a wry shake of her head, Celine strode to the elevator doors at the back of the room.
A vexing sigh slid past Celine's lips as she pressed the vibrant, holo-emitting down button. She tilted her head, her vision sinking once again on the distant metropolis spread outside her lofty, floor-to-ceiling window. The city's skyscrapers winked and blinked incessantly, a neon-drenched symphony of technological seduction set against the ever-night sky. A seduction, she thought with piercing irony, that bore the seeds of mankind's self-imposed doom.
Her mind wandered. She pondered, as she often did, about the brazen allure of cybernetic enhancement. It was ironic, the symbiosis between man and machine. A paradox. The use of technology to fix human limitations, to extend mortal boundaries, was in itself a confession of human vulnerability. Yet, it was also a testament to human audacity.
A sculptor had their marble and clay; the Netrunner, their flesh and alloy. Cybernetics was artistry, the deepest expression of humanity's creative ingenuity. They were the sculptors of the coming era, carving and reshaping history with neural transmitters and synthetic arteries. But every stroke had its price. Every chip implanted, every fusion of metal with skin cost them a piece of their humanity. They were becoming the sculpted rather than the sculptor, fractals of human consciousness entombed in a titanium-clad sarcophagus. Man became machine. And in its making was their unmaking.
A primitive hillock of nerves, the brain - the untamed, throbbing cradle of consciousness. Neural cybernetics, a fickle deity's answer to the human's desperate prayers. Yet, who knew they were signing up to become pawns in a grand, galactic game of chess?
They - the Netrunners - roamed the expansive Metaverse with an unnatural fluency, breaking into vaults of knowledge, pillaging secrets. Yet, they were prisoners chained within their own augmented bodies, trapped in a delicate dance of power rigging in this digital classroom where survival wasn't guaranteed- only contestable.
Ah, the folly of it, Celine mused with a chuckle that was half bitter, half nostalgic. Then, a sudden flash of fluorescence pulled her abruptly from her thoughts. The elevator had arrived.
She stepped into its glass confines, the War-and-Peace long inner musings shelved for another time. After all, philosophy rarely waited for an audience, especially when the stage was set for intrusive tech and star-crossed humans chasing electronic rabbits down the neon-drenched warp holes.
Celine's slender fingers pressed the luminous button marked 'Lobby'. A soft hum of nanotechnology pulsed through the levees of her veins, her palms glowing with a blood-warm azure light. The elevator shot downdrain, gravity pulling back an insistent hand. Then it languished in the belly of marble and glass, and the chrome doors spread apart quietly, letting her into the vast cathedral to contemporary extravagance that was the lobby.
Each directrix of her footsteps echoed in a counterpoint to the sheer luxury of the lobby, stretching into an opulent vista of polished marble and holographic displays. She nodded to the receptionist, a chipper lady-entity with permanently curled, blonde bot-curls and a smile as meticulously programmed as any sound byte. She waved back, her dainty fingers flickering with virtual efflorescence.
Beyond this illusion of affability, the exit loomed like a metallic beast lying dormant, a high-tech monstrosity masquerading as a gateway. It was an airlock- a structure framing both epilogue and prelude to the city's geodesic embrace. Here, Celine would transition from the hypobaric hush of the interior to the lurking, antagonistic ambiance of the untamed, over-pressurized planet.
Sophisticated filters hissed and fizzed, warbling around her like a robotic chorus as they decompressed the air, a frenetic dance of electrons and sonorous beeps. Safety procedures held up by artificial intelligence and, Celine's constant muse, cybernetics.
The marvel of this was not lost on Celine. They had manufactured this utopic cocoon just like the others, against a backdrop of planetary abyss, architects of necessity. New York, Paris, Berlin, London, Moscow, Cairo, you name the metropolis. Isolated cities each in their own gossamer domes, fiercely pressurized and climate-controlled. Most buildings even had singular pressurization and standalone oxygen reserves, prompting the installation of airlocks as entrances. An intricate network of failsafe, daisy-chained together by cities tugging restlessly at the leash of their apocalypse-defying vertigo.
Once the ceremonial release of spinning gears subsided and green alphanumerics cast a muted verdict on the transparent alloy doors, she stepped out.
Four military guards, machine and muscle hybrid, stood stationed at the perimeter of the building's entrance. Celine's eyes lingered on the guards, their stoic faces betraying no emotion, yet behind those eyes, she knew, lay a myriad of stories, each one as complex and tragic as the last. She passed them by.
She stepped forward, the cold, crisp air of the outside world enveloping her, the city lights shimmering like distant stars against the dark, infinite canvas of the night. Her breath materialized in a transient cloud before her. The city, with its towering skyscrapers and endless sea of lights, lay sprawled out ahead.
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