fiction

Asking ChatGPT and Copilot the Same Question Multiple Times

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I am going to ask ChatGPT and Copilot the same simple question for five consecutive days and see what answers I get. I’ll ask what are the three best books written in English?

Here’s ChatGPT’s answer on 10th June 2025

Here’s Copilot’s answer on 10th June 2025

So we have agreement between ChatGPT and Copilot on two out of three books. I have a copy of Ulysses on my to be read shelf.

Day two and I’ll ask the same question again; What are the 3 best books written in English? Here’s ChatGPT’s answer on 11th June 2025

Here’s Copilot’s answer on 11th June 2025

So we have agreement between ChatGPT and Copilot on two out of three books on the second time of asking.

On 12th June 2025 I asked again.

On 13th June 2025 I asked again.

Choosing the “3 best books written in English” is subjective and depends on criteria like literary merit, influence, popularity, or cultural significance. However, if we look at critical acclaim, historical impact, and enduring legacy, a strong case can be made for the following three:

1. Ulysses by James Joyce (1922)

  • Why it’s considered one of the best:
    A groundbreaking work in modernist literature, Ulysses revolutionized narrative structure and stream-of-consciousness technique. It’s dense, complex, and immensely influential.
  • What it’s about:
    It parallels Homer’s Odyssey, following a day in the life of Leopold Bloom in Dublin.
  • Impact:
    Changed the course of 20th-century fiction and remains a towering literary achievement.

2. To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee (1960)

  • Why it’s considered one of the best:
    A profound commentary on race, justice, and morality in the American South, told through the eyes of a child.
  • What it’s about:
    Scout Finch’s coming of age during her father’s defense of a Black man wrongly accused of rape.
  • Impact:
    Hugely influential in American culture and education; Pulitzer Prize winner and widely read around the world.

3. Hamlet by William Shakespeare (c. 1600)

  • Why it’s considered one of the best:
    Technically a play, but it’s literature of the highest order. Hamlet delves into themes of mortality, revenge, madness, and existential doubt.
  • What it’s about:
    The Prince of Denmark struggles with revenge after the murder of his father.
  • Impact:
    Possibly the most quoted work in English literature; its language, themes, and psychological depth remain unmatched.

Would you like a list more tailored to a specific genre (e.g., sci-fi, fantasy, modern fiction) or type of reader (teen, casual, academic)?

My comment: What, has this thing appeared again tonight? Hamlet is back.

On 14th June 2025 I asked for the fifth time.

What are the 3 best books written in English?

ChatGPT said:

Choosing the “3 best books written in English” is inevitably subjective and depends on what you value most—literary influence, cultural impact, emotional power, or pure storytelling. However, based on critical consensus, historical significance, and enduring popularity, here are three often-cited contenders:

1. Ulysses by James Joyce (1922)

  • Why it’s considered great: It’s a landmark of modernist literature, known for its stream-of-consciousness style and intricate structure.
  • Influence: Revolutionized narrative technique and inspired generations of writers.
  • Challenge: It’s dense and not an easy read, but hugely rewarding for serious readers.

2. To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee (1960)

  • Why it’s considered great: Combines powerful themes of racial injustice, morality, and empathy with a compelling coming-of-age story.
  • Impact: Widely taught in schools and deeply influential in American cultural and social discussions.
  • Accessibility: Readable, emotionally resonant, and still relevant today.

3. Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen (1813)

  • Why it’s considered great: Brilliant social commentary wrapped in wit, romance, and elegant prose.
  • Endurance: Over 200 years later, it still feels fresh and relatable.
  • Legacy: Helped shape the modern novel and remains a cornerstone of English literature.

Other frequently mentioned contenders:

  • The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald
  • 1984 by George Orwell
  • Moby-Dick by Herman Melville
  • Hamlet by William Shakespeare (if you include plays)

Would you like a list based on a specific genre, time period, or theme?

Since this is my last go at asking this question I’ll ask for the three best books written about a fictional metal band.

What are the three best books written about a fictional metal band?

ChatGPT said:

Books about fictional metal bands are a niche but deeply entertaining genre—often blending satire, coming-of-age drama, and a love letter to heavy music culture. Here are three of the best books written about fictional metal bands, combining critical acclaim, cult followings, and genuine affection for the genre:

1. The Very Metal Diary of Cleo Howard by Sarah Tipper

  • Band: The Fury
  • Why it’s great: A funny, sweet, and heartfelt coming-of-age story told through diary entries of a teenage metalhead in late-1990s England. Cleo’s passion for metal is authentic and contagious, and her fictional band The Fury feels grounded in real youth band dynamics.
  • Tone: Humorous, nostalgic, and warm with loads of metal references.
  • Bonus: There are multiple sequels that follow Cleo and her bandmates into adulthood.

2. We Sold Our Souls by Grady Hendrix

  • Band: Dürt Würk
  • Why it’s great: A horror-thriller that also acts as a dark satire of the music industry. The plot revolves around a washed-up guitarist trying to uncover the sinister truth behind her band’s rise to fame.
  • Tone: Dark, intense, and infused with real reverence for metal culture.
  • Bonus: Hendrix includes fictional album tracklists, liner notes, and metal lore that deepen the world.

3. This Is Spinal Tap: The Official Companion by Karl French (and others)

  • Band: Spinal Tap
  • Why it’s great: While it’s tied to the legendary mockumentary film, the book is a brilliant in-universe guide filled with absurd band history, tour anecdotes, and “lost” interviews. It’s pure parody but crafted with encyclopedic knowledge of rock and metal clichés.
  • Tone: Hilarious and deeply self-aware.
  • Bonus: Essential for fans of music satire—this band goes to eleven.

Would you like something more serious and less satirical, or more like a teen/YA angle like Cleo Howard?

My comments: I’m flattered that a book of mine is first in the list but this is tempered by the hallucination of the band The Fury, who don’t exist. The book We Sold Our Souls by Grady Hendrix does exist and is now on my to be read list, it sounds like just my sort of book. The Spinal Tap book also exists and I’m very excited about the sequel to Spinal Tap coming out in September 2025.

So a good (if slightly sycophantic) answer from ChatGPT except for the hallucination. Let’s ask Copilot the same questions.

Thanks Copilot! A book written by me is first in the list. I’m blushing like a cat dressed as Father Christmas that has just been given some garish underpants by two robins. Can’t imagine this exactly? Not to worry, it’s the image on a Christmas card I got from the Style Acre charity shop in Wallingford yesterday.

Copilot has taken its answers from a list written in 2018 by Stacy Pratt who has said lots of kind things about my writing (thank you Stacy, I appreciate it). Her list of 15 Headbanging Heavy Metal Novels is a good source and I was aware of it before Copilot mentioned it.

In conclusion, asking five times what are the three best books written in English has resulted in mostly consistent answers. Also, ChatGPT and Copilot are very capable of flattery.

My Fifth Go At ChatGPT – Cleo Howard’s Diary

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For my fifth go at ChatGPT I will try to create a diary entry for Cleo Howard on 1st January 1998 based on her 1997 diary which I will provide the text of.

I can’t add the large text (55,162 words) as a message but I can attach a file.

ChatGPT: Great, thanks for sharing the diary! Based on Cleo Howard’s detailed entries from 1997, here’s a New Year’s diary entry for her on 1st January 1998 that stays true to her tone, voice, and interests:

Thursday 1st January 1998

Happy New Year, Diary!

Woke up with glitter in my hair and a headache that felt like it was playing Megadeth on repeat. That’s what Malibu, cider and trying to headbang to Pantera in a living room full of fairy lights will do to you. We celebrated New Year’s Eve at Jenni’s. Her parents were being cool and even Pam had a glass of red wine (organic, obviously). Me, Jenni, Ian and Shot stayed up to watch the fireworks on telly and shout “1998!” like it was going to make the world better. It didn’t, but it was loud and that’s what matters.

Everyone made toasts. Mine was to passing GCSEs and seeing a band with actual guitars before the year ends. Ian toasted to growing his hair longer than Kirk Hammett’s (I give it a month before he trims it because it’s in his eyes). Jenni toasted to more eyeliner and less Ella.

Danni kissed three people at midnight, including Ian, but I don’t think Sally needs to know that. Barry didn’t come last night—he had to stay in with his mum who had “a migraine” (aka didn’t want to be alone). He called me just after midnight and said he wished he could’ve kissed me when the fireworks went off. I told him to imagine that I did, and then we both went quiet because it was almost romantic.

Mum got up at 9am, hoovered the stairs and said “New year, new start” like it was a threat. She says we’ve got to eat healthy now, so she made lentil soup and I pretended to like it. I’m craving cheese on toast and chocolate digestives.

I’ve made some resolutions:

  1. Don’t fail any subjects, especially not English (Miss Wallace would give me that disappointed face).
  2. See a band live—any band. Preferably not one that has a keytar.
  3. Learn how to play at least one whole song on bass.
  4. Stop wasting time wondering if Barry likes me as much as I like him (he does, probably).
  5. Keep writing everything down. You never know when your life will get interesting.

Also, I saw on Ceefax that the top single right now is that Teletubbies one. 1998 has a lot to make up for.

Right, off to write “Cleo was here 1998” on the back of my wardrobe and then maybe eat the last bit of Christmas cake before Mum throws it out for being “dangerously past its best-before.”

Rock on, future me.
—Cleo 🤘

My comments: This is quite good but “Ian toasted to growing his hair longer than Kirk Hammett’s (I give it a month before he trims it because it’s in his eyes).” is not accurate. Ian would not be taking hair inspo from Kirk Hammett and he would not be trimming his hair for being in his eyes. Cleo’s mum would never make lentil soup, it’s too effortful and middle-class for her character. Cleo wouldn’t know what a keytar is. They are not a heavy metal instrument. Also, Christmas cake would not be thrown out on January 1st for being out of date, that stuff lasts ages.

ChatGPT: Would you like a few more entries for January 1998 to continue the tone and narrative?

Friday 2nd January 1998

Went into town with Jenni. Reading was full of people dragging children around and pretending not to be hungover. We went to HMV and I spent the last of my Christmas money on a Metallica badge and a copy of Kerrang! with Marilyn Manson on the cover looking like a haunted stick insect.

Jenni bought a Sisters of Mercy patch for her coat. She says she’s going to start sewing band patches on like armour. I might do the same, except I can’t sew in a straight line and last time I tried, I pricked my finger and got blood on my Danzig T-shirt. Very metal, but Mum wasn’t impressed.

Saw Barry for a bit—he looked tired but still hot in that way where his hair’s a bit messy and he smells faintly of Lynx Africa and chocolate. We snogged in the alley behind the arcade and someone walked past and coughed “get a room”. If I had a room, I would.

Mum has decided we need to clear out the “junk drawer” in the kitchen. I found a cassette single of 2 Unlimited’s “No Limit” in there. Dark times.

Saturday 3rd January 1998

Went round Ian’s. We made resolutions for WhyY2K, even though they don’t technically exist yet.

Ian’s band resolutions:

  1. Get a gig somewhere that isn’t a garage.
  2. Write a song that makes someone spontaneously headbang.
  3. Not let Ella sing, even as a joke.

We made toast and watched Beavis and Butt-Head Do America on video. Ian reckons I laugh like Beavis when I’m hyper. Rude. We also played The Adverts Game and I beat him for once! My proudest moment was guessing “Woolworths” from a shot of a child putting glitter in a trolley.

Sally called twice while I was there. Ian rolled his eyes both times. He’s got a look he does now—equal parts affection and mild despair.

Sunday 4th January 1998

Spent most of the day avoiding tidying my room. Mum said if I don’t clear up the pile of socks and CDs by the wardrobe, she’s going to chuck them out. I told her that pile is my filing system.

Watched The Royle Family with Barry. Jim said “you can’t polish a turd” and Barry laughed so hard he snorted Pepsi. It’s weird watching a show that feels more like real life than real life.

Found the diary I kept in 1996. I used to sign off every entry with “Stay cool, Cleo” and now I want to crawl into a bin and never return. At least I don’t do that anymore.

Monday 5th January 1998

Back to school tomorrow. Kill me.

Everyone says Year 11 is the most important year of your life, but they said that about Year 10 too, so I’m starting to think adults just enjoy saying that. Jenni says if they say it again next year she’s going to scream.

Rearranged the badges on my school bag. Ramones, Type O Negative, L7. I want to look like I’m too cool to care while still very obviously caring.

Barry says he might get his eyebrow pierced. I told him if he does, I’ll get my nose done. I probably won’t. But I like the idea of us both being slightly more metal.

I wish I could stay up all night and sleep all day like I did in the holidays. Instead, I’m off to bed before eleven like some sort of respectable human. Gross.

ChatGPT: Would you like more entries covering the rest of January 1998? I can keep Cleo’s tone consistent and develop her thoughts and relationships with Barry, Ian, Jenni, and school stuff further.

No thanks ChatGPT. I’m a bit spooked by your entries. In parts they feel like things I wrote and forgot about and in part the detail is wrong and I know I didn’t write them. I also don’t like the insinuation that Cleo may have bought a 2 Unlimited cassingle in the past. I can assure you she wouldn’t waste her precious money. She also wouldn’t get a piercing because Barry did. One more thing though…

It’s an okay cover, a bit generic perhaps. I haven’t heard Crimson Thorn before, but their song Sarcastic Deviation over on YouTube is decent. Death Flame don’t seem to exist and nor do Dark Conquest. I decided to find out a little more about ChatGPT’s musical tastes…

Chat GPT asks a good question. The younger me would say Ozzy, but the me who saw Heaven & Hell at Wacken Open Air came to appreciate Dio.

ChatGPT seems a useful sort of software. I wonder what I’ll do with it next?

My Second Go With Microsoft Copilot – A Christmas Tail at The Golden Hare

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For my second go with Microsoft Copilot I decided to ask it to write a 500 word story about Christmas set in a Cotswold village pub and including the pub dog and a special gift for one of the customers. I have asked ChatGPT to do this previously and it was quite successful.

Copilot: Certainly! Here’s a charming Christmas story set in a Cotswold village pub:

A Christmas Tail at The Golden Hare

The Golden Hare sat snug in the heart of the Cotswolds, its honey-stone walls glowing under the twinkle of Christmas lights. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of mulled wine and the crackle of a log fire, where Rupert, the pub’s beloved Labrador, lay sprawled across the hearth, his golden fur reflecting the flickering flames.

It was Christmas Eve, and the regulars had gathered as they did every year. Old Tom, the shepherd, nursed a pint near the fireplace, his weathered hands wrapped around the glass for warmth. Mary, the baker, had brought a basket of spiced biscuits, and the vicar, always partial to a good story, was deep in conversation with two visitors who had stumbled upon the pub while wandering the frost-bitten lanes.

Rupert lifted his head, ears twitching, as the door creaked open. In walked Henry, a quiet man in his sixties who had been a fixture at The Golden Hare for years but rarely spoke of himself. He always sat in the same corner, a modest pint before him, lost in his own thoughts.

But tonight, something was different. As Henry settled into his usual spot, Rupert rose, trotting over with an expectant wag. In his mouth, he carried a parcel wrapped neatly in brown paper and tied with red twine. He dropped it at Henry’s feet.

The pub fell silent.

Henry stared at the parcel. “What’s this?” he murmured, glancing at the landlord, Jim, who stood behind the bar with a knowing smile.

Jim cleared his throat. “Henry, it’s from all of us. We know you don’t talk much about your past, but Christmas isn’t a time to be alone.”

Henry hesitated, then carefully untied the twine and peeled away the paper. Inside was a beautifully framed photograph—a black-and-white image of a young couple standing by The Golden Hare decades ago, smiling in the glow of festive lanterns.

Henry’s breath hitched. His fingers traced the edges of the frame. “This… this was taken the year we moved here,” he whispered, eyes misting. “My wife, Margaret… she loved this place.”

Jim nodded. “We thought you might like to have a piece of those memories back.”

Henry swallowed hard, looking around at the familiar faces—people who had known him in quiet companionship for years, even without words.

Rupert nuzzled against Henry’s knee, tail thumping softly.

Henry exhaled a shaky breath, lifting his glass. “To The Golden Hare,” he said, his voice stronger now. “And to good friends.”

The pub erupted in cheers, Rupert barked his approval, and the warmth of the season settled over them all, lingering like the glow of the fire and the quiet joy of shared history.

Copilot: I hope you like this story! Let me know if you’d like any tweaks.

My comments: This is good, I like Rupert the Labrador. The pub name is quite convincing too. Let’s see if we can get a good book cover.

There’s no text on the book cover. I’ll ask it to fix this.

I don’t think Copilot has blood Cyrillic font.

So I can’t have a blood drippy font. This is not a deal breaker. My main concern is where did Rupert go?

Job done Copilot.

My Third Go At ChatGPT – A Christmas Gift in Honeywick

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I’ve specified that the Cotswold village should be fictional for my third go. I am wondering if I’ll get a honey-coloured stone description, a Penrose and a postal element.

A Christmas Gift in Honeywick

Nestled in the frosty folds of the Cotswold hills, the village of Honeywick looked like something from a snow globe. Stone cottages lined the cobbled lanes, their honey-colored walls dusted with snow. Fairy lights twinkled in every window, and the scent of mulled cider and pine boughs wafted through the air.

Among the villagers was twelve-year-old Elsie Harrow, who lived with her grandmother, Maud, above the Honeywick Stationery & Books shop. Maud had run the shop for nearly forty years, and though she claimed her bones were “too old for counters and Christmas queues,” she still opened the doors every day, even on Christmas Eve.

Elsie adored the shop. She especially loved the smell — a comforting blend of paper, ink, and old leather. But the shop’s most beloved resident wasn’t Maud or even Elsie — it was Pickle, a sleek grey cat with an imperious attitude and a habit of curling up on the warmest notebook display.

That Christmas Eve, Honeywick was bustling. Children queued for gingerbread at the bakery, and the bell above the stationery shop chimed constantly as villagers popped in for last-minute cards and ribbons. Elsie manned the wrapping station, humming carols while Pickle lounged beside her, twitching his tail each time the ribbon curled.

Around midday, a boy Elsie didn’t recognize came in. He looked about her age, bundled in a coat that had clearly seen better winters. His name was Tom, he said, recently moved to Honeywick with his dad, who’d taken a job at the local garage.

Tom wandered the shop slowly, his eyes wide as he examined the shelves. Eventually, he stopped at the notebook table, where Pickle yawned and stretched before hopping into his lap as if he’d chosen a new favorite human.

“This one’s special,” Elsie said, pointing to a dark blue notebook with gold-embossed stars. “It’s made by a local artist — the paper’s hand-stitched and the cover’s painted with real indigo.”

Tom ran his fingers over it with reverence, but shook his head. “It’s beautiful, but I don’t have enough. I just wanted to find something for my dad. He used to write stories when Mum was around. I thought maybe…”

Before Elsie could answer, Maud appeared behind the counter, eyes twinkling. “That notebook’s half price today,” she said firmly. “Christmas special.”

Tom hesitated, then beamed, pulling out a few carefully folded notes. He thanked them shyly and left with Pickle trotting after him as far as the door before returning to his sunspot.

That night, after the shop closed and the village square echoed with the last notes of the carolers, Elsie found something beneath the tiny tree in their flat. A square parcel, wrapped in brown paper and tied with blue string.

Inside was a notebook — pale green, embossed with her initials. Tucked inside the front cover was a note in Maud’s careful handwriting: “For your stories. The world needs them.”

Elsie looked at Pickle, who blinked back approvingly. She ran her hand over the cover, heart full. Outside, snow began to fall again, soft and slow, as Honeywick settled into a Christmas night wrapped in peace and promise.

My comments:

Things I notice are that we have honey-coloured again and we have US English spelling. The village name of Honeywick is charming. I can imagine Winnie-the-Pooh visiting but I won’t include him in future generated stories for copyright reasons.

This extract: “Maud had run the shop for nearly forty years, and though she claimed her bones were “too old for counters and Christmas queues,” she still opened the doors every day, even on Christmas Eve.”

Taken with Evelyn the aged post-mistress from the first story I generated, this makes me worry about the retirement prospects of women in fictional Cotswold villages. Are these women Women Against State Pension Inequality (WASPI) women?

“Pickle, a sleek grey cat with an imperious attitude and a habit of curling up on the warmest notebook display.”

I have just felt all my notebooks and they are all equally warm. They aren’t displays though. Is Pickle a good cat name? I would call a sleek grey cat Smoky which I think makes me less imaginative than Chat GPT.

“His name was Tom, he said, recently moved to Honeywick with his dad, who’d taken a job at the local garage.”

A Hallmark made for Christmas movie began to unroll itself in my head when I read the above sentence. Chat GPT seems to like the name Tom. We had a Tom in my second story too. We have no postal element this time.

So now for the book cover. I’ve specified the title of the story, the colour of the cat and the colour of the notebook Tom buys.

The thing I notice about this cover is that Stationery is spelt correctly once and incorrectly once.

I think for my fourth go at creating a Christmas story set in a fictional Cotswold village I’ll stick with the name Honeywick, specify use of British English and maybe add a modern element because all three stories so far have felt a bit generic.

I went to the lovely Marlow Bookshop just after generating this book cover and I treated myself to a new notebook.