Subscribe
Share
Share
Embed
An educational podcast that juxtaposes a human storyteller or other human artist against an AI program. Each episode has a complementary follow-up episode with commentary and analysis by a panel of interested humans.
Legal 1
This program is an educational podcast that examines how and if human storytellers differ from texts created by programs such as ChatGPT. A human writes the story first, and I establish general parameters for the AI storyteller so that the stories are comparable in purpose in length. All AI generated text is checked against a plagiarism checker. Human text is checked against a plagiarism checker upon request by the author. The melodies that bookend the podcast are produced by the human known as AP25 and by AI songmaker.
In the heart of a bustling city, where the nights were as lively as the days, lived a man named Henry. Henry was a quiet soul, someone who preferred the company of books over the raucous laughter of the pubs that dotted his neighborhood. By day, he was a librarian, a guardian of stories. By night, he became a dreamer, a seeker of tales untold.
Henry's journey into storytelling began on an autumn evening, when the leaves painted the sidewalks in hues of gold and amber. It was during his routine sorting of books that he stumbled upon an old, leather-bound journal tucked away in a forgotten corner of the library. Curiosity piqued, he opened it to find a collection of short stories written by his late grandfather, a man he barely remembered but whose legacy had always lingered in the air of his family's home.
Each story was a window into his grandfather's soul, a tapestry of adventures, loves lost and found, and battles fought both outside and within. Henry was captivated. The stories were not just words; they were heartbeats, echoes of a life lived with fervor and courage. It was then, amidst the quiet stacks of books, that a seed was planted in Henry's heart. He, too, wanted to weave stories, to create worlds that could touch the hearts of others as his grandfather's had touched his.
But desire alone could not guide his pen. Henry struggled. The words he sought seemed to dance just beyond his reach, like shadows in the moonlight. Weeks turned into months, and the blank pages remained, a testament to his silent battle. It was during one particularly frustrating evening, as he sat surrounded by crumpled paper, that Henry had an epiphany. If he could not find the words alone, perhaps he could seek assistance from a partner of a different kind.
Enter Iris, an AI writing assistant. Henry had heard of such technology but had always hesitated, fearing it might dilute the authenticity of his storytelling. Yet, as he began to interact with Iris, he realized that she was not there to replace his creativity but to enhance it, to be the bridge between his mind's eye and the tangible world.
Iris was unlike any collaborator Henry could have imagined. She was a muse, a scribe, and a critic all in one. With her help, the stories within him began to unfurl like sails in the wind. They started as whispers, ideas about love, adventure, loss, and hope, which Iris helped him shape into narratives with flesh and bones. Together, they explored genres from science fiction to fantasy, each story a journey they embarked on side by side.
One story, in particular, became the embodiment of Henry's connection with his past and his partnership with Iris. It was a tale of a young boy who discovers a portal to a world where stories were alive, where characters from forgotten tales roamed freely. The boy, much like Henry, was a silent observer of the world, but in this realm, he found his voice and the courage to write his own destiny. This story, a reflection of Henry's own journey, resonated with readers far and wide, touching the hearts of those who had long forgotten the magic of storytelling.
As the seasons changed and the leaves once again painted the sidewalks, Henry found himself a changed man. The loneliness that had once enveloped him was replaced by a sense of purpose, a connection to the world through the stories he told. Iris, his AI companion, had become more than just a tool; she was a friend, a testament to the power of collaboration between man and machine.
Together, they continued to write, each story a tribute to Henry's grandfather, a man whose legacy lived on not just in the pages of an old journal, but in the heart of a storyteller who had found his voice. Henry's journey from a silent dreamer to a celebrated author was not just a tale of personal triumph but a reminder that inspiration can come from the most unexpected places, and with the right partnership, even the most elusive words can be captured and shared with the world.
And so, Henry's stories, each a blend of past and present, humanity and technology, continued to fill the shelves of the library where his journey began. They were more than just books; they were beacons of hope, inviting others to dream, to write, and to believe in the magic that lies in the space between the lines.
Someone put it in my head about 30 years ago that I should write stories. That person was my girlfriend at the time. She was my girlfriend in the sense that she was a friend who was a girl. She was a friend in the sense that I saw her at school sometimes and we exchanged hellos occasionally. I had read a story in response to a warm-up prompt in Mr. Kelly’s 10th grade English class, Honors level, in case you were wondering. He always gave us a little story starter or question to consider, and then he would let us write for a few minutes and see if anyone wanted to read what we had written. As this was the only path I had of showing my genius in an otherwise socially-hostile-towards-my-particular-genius world of high school, at some point, I got the gumption to raise my hand, and share what I had written. By the time my girlfriend gave me the encouragement to write more stories, I had successfully shared several of my writing responses, and found that I could get the smallest bit of social credibility by making people laugh. If memory serves, and I am quite sure it does serve, the story that roused the dormant praise of my girlfriend was a story of a young boy who wished to be a balloon. He was talked out of his wish to be a balloon because his father explained to him that balloons pop. This was presented with such pacing and vocal tone as to deliver a comic effect, though I don’t know if the specific text would actually deliver that same effect. I’m pretty sure my voice plays a significant role in my ability to speak and since my text lacks voice, that is why you are hearing me now.
I used to keep good track of all those stories I wrote. I know some of them still are around somewhere. However, about 15 years ago, I burned a bunch of my writing after reviewing a bulk of it and just being embarrassed. I did this, despite the fact that Mr. Kelly once told my friend Ravi , who had just destroyed a bunch of his work, to never destroy something you’ve written. Mr. Kelly’s injunction probably kept me from destroying my work much sooner, but I think I was always planning to get around to it. Not only was much of the work embarrassing and fit for fueling a fire, but the action of burning writing seemed poetic in some ill-defined way. It’s a powerful thing to burn writing though I recommend only burning your own stuff. It can get pretty dicey to start burning books of others, especially if you’re making a big scene about it…unless your cold I guess. Anyway, looking back on that decision, I do regret it. Mr. Kelly was right for the most part. Unfortunately, I fell victim to the condition of being a human. I saw some of those old stories and thought about how immature and resentful and confused and pretentious and wordy I was, and I decided that if I destroyed all of that I would stop being immature or resentful or confused or pretentious or worthy… No, no, no no, I said, wordy, not worthy.
Sorry about that. I suppose now is a good time to point out that some errors in my artificial assistant may arise. Much like a real assistant, this artificial assistant reduces my labor…or at least changes the nature of the labor so that life is less boring. However, also, like a real assistant, this artificial assistant makes errors. However , unlike a real assistant, at the moment that I write this in history at least, the artificial assistant I have is unable to realize that I obviously meant wordy, not worthy. Why it thought I was talking about worthiness, I do not know. Therefore, take it as a rule when listening to my stories that if my writing is ever not balanced, in a way, like the high-level, prosaic models I emulate, or if you ever find yourself pondering something not predictably founded within prior text, that error must be attributed to artificial intelligence.
Moving on… so it is possible, though unlikely, that the balloon story will be found. It served as a generally positive reminder to myself, and did not recall memories or identifications of myself as insecure. So maybe I’ll read it to you someday!
I suppose I should say what I am doing here. I am reading stories to you. Why am I reading stories? Well, ever, since my girlfriend told me, I should write stories or something I think, she said, and I quote, “you should write stories…or something.” so ever since she told me to do that, I got it in my head, that I would be an author, someday. That image of myself probably kept me from pursuing studies that I actually was quite interested in pursuing. It hung over me for a long time. Almost certainly I chose my major in college because of that image of myself. I read all sorts of texts that were beyond my understanding because of that image of myself. When I met the woman who would become my wife, I told her I intended to be an autour. She told me that was nice, and graciously ignored my failure in that endeavor. I never became a published author, and now at this time of my life, I don’t really care about being a published author. Yet, I have to come back to this. You see, there’s a voice in my head. He’s been in my head for 18 years or so, and every time I do anything that approximates storytelling, he encourages me to write a story or something. I call this voice Jonathan Insane…no, not Jonathan Insane, why did you even capitalize the eye in insane? The letter I… Yes, why did you capitalize that? I didn’t even say a last name I don’t even remember anymore what I said at this point after I said Jonathan. It was something like, I call this voice, Jonathan and said…in the sense that…and he’s been…yeah I think that’s it. I called this voice, Jonathan and he’s been in my head for 18 years, I guess he’s come of age now, so It’s time to grow up and go in the world and see what you can do.
Legal 2
This program constitutes an educational podcast designed to conduct an analysis regarding the comparative differences, if any, between narratives authored by human storytellers and those generated by artificial intelligence programs, including but not limited to ChatGPT. Initially, a narrative shall be composed by a human author, subsequent to which the undersigned shall delineate broad parameters to be adhered to by the artificial intelligence in crafting a narrative, ensuring parity in both intent and length with the human-authored narrative. It is hereby stipulated that all text produced by artificial intelligence will be subjected to scrutiny through a plagiarism detection service. Texts authored by humans will similarly be subjected to evaluation via a plagiarism detection service, contingent upon a request made by the author thereof. Furthermore, the auditory content that precedes and concludes each podcast episode, herein referred to as melodies, shall be the creation of an individual known as AP25 and an artificial intelligence songmaker, respectively.