Arran, where I am lucky enough to go on a writing retreat with four brilliant author friends. The surroundings always inspire. This is Glen Rosa.
I was at a meeting the other day. It was a roomful of lovely, interesting people, many of whom I talked with, many of whom told me fascinating stories – letting me catch a glimpse of their lives, of themselves.
Glenashdale Falls (Eas a’ Chrannaig), Arran. looking down is a little scary – but really gets the brain/ emotions working
But it was one man who I spoke with for a few minutes who has left me with an impression I wasn’texpecting … or needed, to be honest. He was asking about my creative writing class, and I was in my usual enthusiastic mood about the stories we all have within us, that everyone has a genre they can excel at, and how he would be so welcome to join our group – when he stopped my gallop (as my mother would say). He said that he really didn’t need or want to join in with a collection of people trying to write from their experiences in life. He knew all he had to do was to, “Put a few ideas into ChatGPT, take the story it produced, and tidy it up…” It was something he’d been doing for a while apparently. And it worked for him. When I asked how he “tidied the story up,” he looked blankly at me, and then said, “you should know, the punctuation etc.” It was the “etc” that told me that I should just smile and say something benign like, “okay. Or each to their own” or some such – and leave.
Tides out. Looking over towards Holy Island from Kingscross.
Instead I asked him what about all the different experiences we have as we move through life? The memories of the world at a certain time, of observed situations, of the people we met, lived alongside. Of our interpretation of all those things, and the way we reacted. Of using all of our five senses to bring a story to life, to hopefully evoke a response, a reaction to our reader?
On another trip to Arran, the Photographer and I were walking along a track with Mount GoatFell in the distance. The path became narrower and narrower – until we saw …
Whereupon I and Dusk, our gorgeous companion lent to us by our friend, refused to go any further.
Relaxing by the side of Loch Garbad after a bit of a trek from Eas Mor.
As I was speaking to the man I became aware of his smile growing wider. Now I swear it was a smirk (I was getting increasing frustrated inside by his calm indifference to my side of the discussion – and it was a discussion, not an argument – I learned the difference between them many years ago – see: https://tinyurl.com/yssmpde7. But my husband says the man’s smile was one of sympathy and understanding that I “simply don’t know how the world of writing works these days.” Yes, he did say that, obviously allowing that I was too old, was too set in my ways to accept the way things are now.
And yes, it still discourages me seeing his belief written here.
Giants Graves – above Whiting Bay.
But there is nothing I can do about that. So here I am, flogging away to get the right words to fit together to get the right ‘feeling’ in this part of the book I’m writing at the moment. Trying to bring a scene to life, using all that I have in me, all that I have experienced, learned, over the years. Using my imagination. And the fleeting moment of wondering if I’m wrong, that some inanimate object, ChatGPT, can do it better than me, is only that … a fleeting moment. Because there’s only me in my head, there are only my memories, my thoughts, my emotions in my brain.
My effort at a picture. Looking back at the steps from the Giants’ Graves, leaving the Photographer behind as he …
… disappears through the grass on the hill overlooking Whiting Bay – ever in the search for ‘the best shot’.
And if what I write, my stories, are not what some (or many) readers want, that’s okay. Because there are as many different readers as there are authors. It’s all subjective. And I know I won’t stop writing – because I can’t.
I should end this by saying I’m not judging; it’s not my place to judge anybody. And I’m not saying I’m right and it’s wrong to use ChatGPT. We all do things differently. I’m only saying it’s how I’ve always felt about my work, it’s how I write. I don’t judge.
I just wish that man hadn’t smirked at me. Despite what my husband says, I just know he smirked!!!
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I have written a few posts on our walks on Arran. I’ve included three here, if anyone is interested:
Judith Barrow 