Today I decided to pause in my writing based Ludditery (I adore notebooks and always will) and see what ChatGPT is like as an author. I pootled over to Wikipedia’s ChatGPT entry for a quick answer to what the flip is ChatGPT and then I got started at https://chatgpt.com/ which is pleasingly uncluttered.

I didn’t need to create an account to get a story, but I created one later to get an image. The story, in blue below, is pretty good and does what I asked.

Title: The Snow Fairy of Chipping Wold

Chipping Wold, a honey-stoned village nestled deep in the Cotswolds, always looked like a snow globe scene in December. Its thatched cottages, winding lanes, and twinkling fairy lights made Christmas feel like something out of a storybook. But one Christmas Eve, something truly magical happened—something even the oldest villagers still whispered about over mulled wine at the pub.

Evelyn Thompson, the village’s sprightly seventy-two-year-old postmistress, was the first to see it.

She was trudging home after the last post round, her Wellington boots crunching through the snow. Her scarf, a knitted red-and-white spiral made by her late husband, fluttered in the wind. Evelyn was looking forward to a quiet evening with her cat, Marmalade, and a generous box of assorted chocolates—her annual Christmas treat. She had just passed the ancient yew tree near the churchyard when she saw a flicker of movement in the snow-dusted branches.

At first, she thought it was a robin. But as she got closer, her breath caught in the cold air.

There, nestled against the bark, was a bird she’d never seen before. It was no bigger than a sparrow, with feathers as soft as frost and as white as powdered sugar. Its wings shimmered with a pearly blue hue, and its eyes sparkled like tiny beads of jet. It didn’t flutter away when Evelyn approached; it simply tilted its head and watched her.

“It’s a snow fairy bird,” she whispered, more to herself than anything else. Evelyn had once read about them in an old travel book. Native to the snowy forests of Hokkaido, Japan, these rare little creatures were thought never to leave their homeland. Seeing one here, in Chipping Wold, on Christmas Eve of all nights, was like finding a unicorn in your garden shed.

She stretched out a mittened hand, and to her amazement, the bird hopped onto her finger. For a few moments, they simply looked at each other in the hush of the falling snow. Then, just as suddenly, it took off into the air, leaving a trail of shimmering flakes behind it.

Evelyn stood for a long time in the snow, the chill forgotten. Eventually, she made her way home, heart thumping with wonder. She didn’t tell anyone—not at first. Who would believe her?

The next morning, the whole village was buzzing.

“You’ll never believe what I saw by the green,” said Mr. Penrose, the vicar. “A tiny white bird, glowing like moonlight.”

“It followed me all the way to the bakery,” said little Maisie Clark, whose cheeks were red with excitement.

By the end of Christmas Day, at least a dozen villagers claimed to have seen the bird. They began calling it the Snow Fairy, and the name stuck. It became the heart of a new village legend.

Each year after that, on Christmas Eve, people would gather by the yew tree with lanterns, hoping to catch a glimpse of the mysterious creature. Evelyn, always seated on the bench closest to the tree, would bring a selection box of chocolates to share with the children who came. She always saved one particular chocolate—a caramel truffle wrapped in silver foil—and placed it gently at the base of the tree, “for the Snow Fairy.”

Some winters, the bird returned. Just a flit of white in the dusk, a shimmer in the branches, and hearts lifted across the village. Other years, there was no sign at all—but the hope remained.

As the years passed, Evelyn grew frail. One Christmas Eve, the villagers found her usual seat empty. A note was left in the post office window: “With love, always. –E.T.”

That night, the snow fell thicker than anyone could remember. The lanterns glowed softly against the swirling white. And just as the church bells rang midnight, someone gasped and pointed.

Above the yew tree, dancing through the snowflakes, was the Snow Fairy bird.

It swooped gently through the crowd and landed—where else?—on Evelyn’s old bench. There, someone had placed a chocolate selection box and a single silver-wrapped truffle.

The bird pecked the foil gently, then vanished into the snowy night, leaving behind a feather so fine and white it seemed made of cloud.

Today, visitors to Chipping Wold can still hear the tale. The bench by the yew tree bears a plaque that reads:

“In memory of Evelyn Thompson, who believed in wonder—and left us a little more.”

Every Christmas Eve, children gather with chocolates, villagers light their lanterns, and hearts wait for a shimmer of frost-feathered wings—just in case the Snow Fairy returns.

My first thoughts on reading this story;

“seventy-two-year-old postmistress, was the first to see it.”

“She was trudging home after the last post round”

To still be working at seventy-two our Evelyn must love post-mistressing or have not planned well for her retirement. I hope it’s the first option. Also, how many houses does Chipping Wold have? How much post is she delivering and who is doing the other post officey jobs while she’s out?

“Her scarf, a knitted red-and-white spiral made by her late husband”

I like that her late husband was a knitter and her scarf is a spiral. I imagine it’s hard to see out of a spiral of wool starting on your shoulders and ascending upwards, unless she’s wearing it from her shoulders downwards but that may make it hard to walk. I’m glad she’s described as sprightly, it makes the scarf seem less of a trip hazard. I have just Googled spiral and I realise I have confused spiral and helix so ChatGPT’s usage is totally fine and I am wrong. Serves me right for not being a computer.

“They began calling it the Snow Fairy, and the name stuck.”

Um, that is its actual name as specified earlier in the story. They are calling it what it is called. A human writer could have chosen another name like the Floofy Milk-Hued Flapper and this could have begun being used and then stuck.

“As the years passed, Evelyn grew frail. One Christmas Eve, the villagers found her usual seat empty. A note was left in the post office window: “With love, always. –E.T.””

A human writer might think E.T. a bit similar to that other E.T. of phone home fame. No reason not to use it though.

Now it was time to ask for a book cover. I created an account which was very simple to do.

Before image creation ChatGPT said what it would do and asked if I wanted to make amendments.

I typed Yes into the ChatGPT window and I didn’t change anything. I could have insisted on the blood Cyrillic font. I could have added a Spira chocolate bar which I miss enormously. Maybe the post office in Chipping Wold still has a box of Spiras in the stock room. Evelyn might have been too busy to do an annual stocktake since 2004. I had to wait a few minutes for my cover to be generated but this just made it more exciting.

And then a rather jolly image happened…

This looks like the sort of book that could be available at garden centres near you from the last week in August.

In general, this little window into Chipping Wold (I would also have accepted Stow on the Chipping, Wold Campden, Stoke on the Water, Preston Flark, or Little Fussing) is very festive.

Maybe I’ll ask Chat GPT to write me a story about a splendid jolly writer who loved writing short Christmas stories but became disillusioned due to the ease at which ChatGPT can do it and so gave up (for about ten minutes) but then had a sudden insight and decided writing is still for humans if they like doing it.

Anyway, Chat GPT, give it a go…