PLAGIARISM DISCLAIMER
This article uses a short extract of a ms I own as input to ChatGPT, for didactic purposes.
None of the AI-generated passages have found their way into my finished ms, which is presently seeking publication.
Ian Clark, December 2025
Whenever I’ve tried to use ChatGPT to generate an initial draft to polish by hand, I had thought that what it delivered was bland and generic. This gave me the false impression that ChatGPT knew nothing about style.
Actually it does. It can be asked to write in any style you can think of. The reason my prompts were getting something bland and generic was because I hadn’t told it what style to write in.
My task as I see it now is to develop a prompt for a unique style which I can adopt as my own. As a first stage towards doing that, I thought I’d ask ChatGPT to rewrite my draft in the style of a popular author in the genre I am writing for, viz YA (Young Adult) Adventure.
I asked ChatGPT to show me a list of novelists in this genre, and it came up with:
- 1. “The Hunger Games” by Suzanne Collins – A dystopian adventure where teenagers must fight to the death in a televised event.
- 2. “Percy Jackson & the Olympians” series by Rick Riordan – Follows the adventures of Percy Jackson, a demigod son of Poseidon, and his friends.
- 3. “Six of Crows” by Leigh Bardugo – A heist adventure set in a fantasy world, featuring a group of misfit criminals.
- 4. “The Maze Runner” by James Dashner – A group of teens must navigate a deadly maze to escape a mysterious and dangerous environment.
- 5. “The Lunar Chronicles” by Marissa Meyer – A futuristic adventure series that reimagines classic fairy tales with a sci-fi twist.
- 6. “An Ember in the Ashes” by Sabaa Tahir – An epic adventure set in a brutal Roman-inspired world, focusing on a slave and a soldier.
- 7. “Red Queen” by Victoria Aveyard – A story of a divided society where a girl with hidden powers becomes a symbol of rebellion.
- 8. “Caraval” by Stephanie Garber – An enchanting adventure where two sisters enter a magical game to escape their troubled reality.
- 9. “The Mortal Instruments” series by Cassandra Clare – An urban fantasy adventure featuring a world of Shadowhunters who battle demons.
- 10. “Scythe” by Neal Shusterman – A gripping tale set in a future where death has been conquered and only Scythes can end life to control the population.
To these I added some authors whose style I was familiar with, in order to get a feel for what ChatGPT was doing to my prose. These were: Stephen King and JRR Tolkien.
Karin Slaughter was included too, as an example of a thriller writer (adult), to see if she furnished any ingredient I might be missing by confining my investigation to YA authors. Even if I didn’t manage to mix-and-match a prompt to craft a personalised style, one or other of this panel of authors would offer some ideas to help me polish my draft.
NOTE: the actual “Text A” that I experimented with was longer than I’ve shown here. But I have truncated it to 4 paragraphs (and all its derivatives) to keep this article to a manageable length. A possible side-effect is to make ChatGPT appear far more savvy about the subject matter of Text A than if it only had the truncated sample to work with.
Text A
Anitra pushed the back door open with her bum. It was the best way of doing it while clutching two handfuls of shopping bags. The door was kept unlocked during the day: you never knew who might be round for a cup of tea and a “bit-chat”. It opened straight into the kitchen, spacious and lived-in but clean.
“Hi Uncle Peter, I’m back.”
No reply. But Anitra wasn’t surprised. Peter might be anywhere: upstairs, out in the front garden, or mending something in his workshop. Today there was only the two of them at home. Gaby had taken the boys in the bus for a run up the Dale.
Anitra had opted to stay at home because there was something she needed to do, but she didn’t want to go telling everyone what it was. Everyone knew anyway. There was a boy she was keen on and she was putting the finishing touches to a jumper she’d made for him, rushing to get it ready in time for his birthday.
It was no small task to get ChatGPT to know just what I meant by a reference to my original draft. The AI remembers earlier prompts in a given session, but what it doesn’t do is keep a record of its actual responses. If you don’t phrase each prompt carefully, it is apt to regenerate rather than recall a given response.
Eventually I managed to agree with ChatGPT on something called “Text A” which stood for the exact text of my draft. But I’ve not found a way of doing this which doesn’t require re-inputting the said text. But I don’t want to go into the matter here. Let’s just concern ourselves with the quality of the responses themselves as samples of good writing.
Here’s my first prompt using “Text A”. I garbled it by pressing Enter too soon: I had meant to write something like “…in the style of a modern (YA) author”. ChatGPT took a guess at what I meant (it can correct misspellings), but of course if you don’t know what exactly it’s made of your garbled prompt you can’t be sure of the nature of the response. However I decided it was useful sample of text, worth reproducing below.
Rewrite Text A in the style of a modern
Anitra nudged the back door open with her hip, both hands full of grocery bags. The door was always unlocked during the day; you never knew who might drop by for a cup of tea and a chat. The kitchen, spacious and homey, was clean despite the frequent activity.
“Hi Uncle Peter, I’m back.”
No response. Anitra wasn’t surprised; Peter could be anywhere—upstairs, in the front garden, or tinkering in his workshop. Today, it was just the two of them at home. Gaby had taken the boys on a bus trip up the Dale.
Anitra had stayed home for a reason she kept private but everyone knew. She was finishing a sweater for a boy she liked, hoping to complete it in time for his birthday.
Call it TextM.
I would call this a “dry” style. There is little colour and few embellishments. The 4th para is so dry it’s been dessicated, almost halving the number of words I’ve used.
There are a few synonym substitutions, which I think of as British-to-American translations: “hip” for “bum”; “response” for “reply”. These serve to warn me not to use British idioms in an international market. (“Bum” has different meanings in the USA and UK.)
Nevertheless it is formally correct English, defining the essence of my text – the “active ingredients”. It might actually be easier to read than my text for someone with English as a second language. Good for instructional text, but not so good for a novel (even a YA novel).
Rewrite Text A in the style of Stephen King
Anitra nudged the back door open with her rear end, juggling the weight of the shopping bags in both hands. The door was always unlocked during the day—a relic of old habits and the hope for unexpected company. It swung open to the kitchen, a room that seemed both expansive and confining, a place where memories lingered in the air like the smell of stale coffee and bleach.
“Hi Uncle Peter, I’m back.”
Silence. Anitra wasn’t perturbed; Peter could be anywhere: upstairs, buried in the front garden, or hidden away in his workshop, fingers greasy with some stubborn machinery. Today, it was just the two of them in the house. Gaby had taken the boys on a bus trip up the Dale.
Anitra had chosen to stay behind, her reason cloaked in secrecy but understood by all. She was finishing a sweater for a boy she had her eye on, her needles moving with the urgency of a ticking clock, racing against his impending birthday.
Call it TextSK.
The text has suddenly come to life, itching to go charging off like a racehorse at the starting gate. The phrase “hoping to complete it in time for his birthday” has become “racing against his impending birthday”. And “mending something in his workshop” has become “hidden away in his workshop, fingers greasy with some stubborn machinery”. Furthermore, “buried in the front garden” is a sinister double-entendre, which marks out Stephen King from a sales copywriter, even a high-octane one.
As before, ChatGPT has discarded the word “bum”, but instead of the conventional euphemism: “hip”, we get “rear end”. Let’s call a spade a spade.
To describe TextSK as “racy” doesn’t do justice to The Master of Suspense. But somehow ChatGPT has distilled Stephen King’s secret sauce, and used it to pep up my antiseptic prose. In doing so it has added what was entirely absent in the original: notes of stale coffee and bleach, not to say greasy fingers and stubborn machinery, in a working-class family home which is not quite how I imagined it, but one I much prefer to have in my novel.
Rewrite Text A in the style of JRR Tolkien
Anitra, with the grace of one accustomed to carrying burdens, eased open the back door with a gentle push of her hip. Her hands were laden with shopping bags, and the door, left unlocked during the daylight hours, swung open to reveal the familiar and welcoming kitchen. This was a place of warmth and life, a sanctuary in their abode, kept immaculate despite the frequent use.
“Uncle Peter, I have returned,” she called, her voice carrying through the house.
There was no answer, but this did not trouble Anitra. Peter, known for his various occupations, might be anywhere within the house or grounds: upstairs, tending the garden, or immersed in some task within his workshop. On this day, the household was quiet, save for Anitra and Peter. Gaby had taken the young boys on a journey to the Dale.
Anitra had chosen to remain behind, for she had a secret purpose. Though she spoke of it to none, all were aware. She was fashioning a jumper for a boy she held dear, striving to complete it before his birthday arrived.
Call it TextJRRT.
I have to say Tolkien was a whimsical afterthought, a thousand miles from the job-in-hand. I was half expecting:
In a hole south of Hetton-le-Hole lived a Stellan…
but no – it was my libretto, reimagined by the author of The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings – perhaps the most influential fantasy writer of the 20th century. Someone to aspire to indeed.
As elsewhere, the word “bum” is replaced by a conventional euphemism: “hip”.
Notable is the fact that only in TextJRRT does ChatGPT see fit to alter Anitra’s direct speech significantly from the original Durham vernacular, adding an embellishment reflecting Tolkien’s acoustic preoccupations, in contrast to Stephen King’s predilection for grease and smells.
Rewrite Text A in the style of Karin Slaughter
Anitra pushed the back door open with her hip, both hands gripping the heavy shopping bags. The door, perpetually unlocked during the day, swung into the kitchen—a room that was lived-in but meticulously clean.
“Uncle Peter, I’m back,” she called out, her voice cutting through the quiet house.
No answer. Anitra wasn’t surprised. Peter could be anywhere: upstairs, out front, or tinkering in his workshop. Today, it was just the two of them at home. Gaby had taken the boys on a bus trip up the Dale.
Anitra had chosen to stay behind for her own reasons, which she kept private but everyone knew. She was finishing a sweater for a boy she liked, racing against the clock to have it ready for his birthday.
Call it TextKS.
This style is as economical as TextM, the generic modern author, which it basically resembles. But with a better-chosen vocabulary for verbs and actions. This suit a thriller writer, whose novels are full of action. My clumsy verb “rushing”, suggestive of carelessness, becomes “racing against the clock” – a cliché perhaps, but an evocative one for an audience tolerant of clichés as less distracting from the action in-hand.
Rewrite Text A in the style of Suzanne Collins
Anitra nudged the back door open with her hip, both hands gripping the heavy shopping bags. The door was always unlocked during the day, inviting anyone who might drop by for tea and a “bit-chat.” It opened directly into the kitchen, a place that was both spacious and orderly, despite the constant activity.
“Hi Uncle Peter, I’m back,” she called out.
No response. Anitra wasn’t worried. Peter could be anywhere: upstairs, out in the front garden, or tinkering in his workshop. Today, it was just the two of them at home. Gaby had taken the boys on a bus ride up the Dale.
Anitra had stayed behind for her own reasons, ones she kept to herself but everyone knew. She was finishing a sweater for a boy she liked, working quickly to have it ready for his birthday.
Call it TextSC.
Another economical style, for which generic is good enough because like TextKS the stories focus upon action of an unusual sort. I conjecture “good enough” because TextKS has seen fit to retain the Durham vernacular “bit-chat”.
Rewrite Text A in the style of Rick Riordan
Anitra nudged the back door open with her hip, balancing heavy shopping bags in both hands. The door, left unlocked during the day because, well, who knows when someone might drop by for a snack and a chat, creaked open into the kitchen. It was a cozy, lived-in space, yet somehow always clean.
“Hi Uncle Peter, I’m back,” she called out, her voice echoing through the house.
No answer. Typical. Peter could be anywhere—upstairs, out front, or tinkering with some gadget in his workshop. Today, it was just the two of them. Gaby had taken the boys on a bus trip up the Dale.
Anitra had opted to stay behind for reasons she kept to herself but everyone kind of knew anyway. She was finishing up a sweater for a boy she liked, trying to get it done in time for his birthday.
Call it TextRR.
Unlike TextA, this has an ear for folksy ways of talking: “yet somehow always clean”; “because, well, who knows…”; “everyone kind of knew anyway”.
Rewrite Text A in the style of James Dashner
Anitra pushed the back door open with her hip, her hands weighed down by bulging shopping bags. The door was always unlocked during the day, welcoming anyone who might stop by for a cup of tea and some conversation. It opened directly into the kitchen, a space that was both lived-in and meticulously clean.
“Uncle Peter, I’m back,” she called out, her voice echoing slightly in the quiet house.
There was no reply. Anitra wasn’t concerned; Peter could be anywhere—upstairs, out front, or tinkering in his workshop. Today, it was just the two of them at home. Gaby had taken the boys on a bus trip up the Dale.
Anitra had opted to stay home for a reason she kept to herself but everyone knew. She was finishing a sweater for a boy she liked, racing against time to have it ready for his birthday.
Call it TextJD.
Rewrite Text A in the style of Marissa Meyer
Anitra nudged the back door open with her hip, both hands occupied by heavy shopping bags. The door, left unlocked during the day, swung into the kitchen—a space that was both welcoming and meticulously clean, despite the constant activity.
“Hi Uncle Peter, I’m back,” she called out, her voice echoing through the house.
Silence greeted her. Anitra wasn’t alarmed; Peter could be anywhere: upstairs, out front, or tinkering in his workshop. Today, it was just the two of them at home. Gaby had taken the boys on a bus trip up the Dale.
Anitra had chosen to stay behind, her reason kept private but known to all. She was finishing a sweater for a boy she liked, racing against time to complete it before his birthday.
Call it TextMM.
Rewrite Text A in the style of Sabaa Tahir
Anitra pushed the back door open with her hip, both hands clutching heavy shopping bags. The door, always left unlocked during the day, creaked open into the kitchen—a place that bore the marks of both comfort and vigilance, lived-in yet scrupulously clean.
“Uncle Peter, I’m back,” she called, her voice breaking the stillness of the house.
No reply. Anitra wasn’t worried. Peter could be anywhere: upstairs, in the front garden, or ensconced in his workshop. Today, it was only the two of them at home. Gaby had taken the boys on a bus ride up the Dale.
Anitra had stayed behind for a reason she kept to herself, though everyone knew. She was finishing a sweater for a boy she liked, racing to complete it in time for his birthday.
Call it TextST.
Rewrite Text A in the style of Victoria Aveyard
Anitra nudged the back door open with her hip, balancing the weight of shopping bags in both hands. The door, always left unlocked during the day, creaked open into the kitchen—a space both lived-in and immaculate, a testament to daily battles fought and won.
“Hi Uncle Peter, I’m back,” she called, her voice slicing through the silence of the house.
No response. Anitra wasn’t concerned. Peter could be anywhere: upstairs, tending to the front garden, or engrossed in some project in his workshop. Today, it was just the two of them. Gaby had taken the boys on a bus trip up the Dale.
Anitra had stayed behind for her own reasons, ones she kept private but everyone knew. She was finishing a sweater for a boy she liked, racing against time to complete it for his birthday.
Call it TextVA.
Rewrite Text A in the style of Stephanie Garber
Anitra nudged the back door open with her hip, her hands weighed down by heavy shopping bags. The door, left unlocked during the daylight hours, swung open into the kitchen—a place that shimmered with the warmth of everyday magic, both spacious and impeccably clean despite its constant use.
“Hi Uncle Peter, I’m back,” she called, her voice echoing through the quiet house.
Silence. Anitra wasn’t concerned. Peter could be anywhere: upstairs, in the front garden, or lost in the enchantment of his workshop. Today, it was just the two of them at home. Gaby had whisked the boys away on a bus trip up the Dale.
Anitra had chosen to stay behind for reasons she kept close to her heart but known to all. She was finishing a sweater for a boy she liked, racing against time to complete it for his birthday.
Call it TextSG.
Rewrite Text A in the style of Cassandra Clare
Anitra nudged the back door open with her hip, her hands occupied by the weight of shopping bags. The door, always left unlocked during the day, swung into the kitchen—a place that managed to feel both spacious and intimate, clean despite the daily bustle.
“Hi Uncle Peter, I’m back,” she called, her voice ringing through the house.
There was no response. Anitra wasn’t worried. Peter could be anywhere: upstairs, in the front garden, or tinkering in his workshop. Today, it was just the two of them at home. Gaby had taken the boys on a bus trip up the Dale.
Anitra had stayed behind for reasons she kept to herself, though everyone knew. She was finishing a sweater for a boy she liked, her needles flying as she raced to complete it for his birthday.
Call it TextCC.
Rewrite Text A in the style of Neal Shusterman
Anitra nudged the back door open with her hip, hands full of overstuffed shopping bags. The door, habitually left unlocked during the day, swung open into the kitchen—a space that was spacious and inviting, yet rigorously maintained.
“Hi Uncle Peter, I’m back,” she called out, her voice echoing through the stillness of the house.
There was no reply. Anitra wasn’t worried. Peter could be anywhere: upstairs, out front, or lost in his workshop. Today, it was just the two of them. Gaby had taken the boys on a bus ride up the Dale.
Anitra had chosen to stay behind for reasons she kept private but everyone knew. She was finishing a sweater for a boy she liked, knitting frantically to have it ready in time for his birthday.
Call it TextNS.
Conclusion
I haven’t yet come to terms with ChatGPT’s ability to extract the “secret sauce” of an author’s style and apply it to a body of text in virtually any style, dissolve the content of the text and re-crystallise it in a wholly new form. If asked to, it will extend the original text with endless material in the same vein.
Is it mindlessly plagiarising the given author, mining his or her published text for juicy representative phrases it can drop in and customise, a bit like those “painting-by-numbers” kits you used to be able to buy?
I think not. Apparently it dissolves a text down to the very syllables, ending with a pregnant melt from which not just one but many kinds of crystals can be drawn out, or precipitated. I think the crystallisation metaphor is an appropriate one. An amorphous fluid can give birth to a complex mass of interlocking crystals, without the gross structure of those crystals being somehow hidden in the flask. Each crystal gets its geometric shape from the shape of the molecules from which it condenses. Molecules accrue at random, but the overall shape of the complex is heavily constrained by the shape of the gap each molecule chances upon. The precipitate is a combination of randomness and predetermined order.
In one limited sense ChatGPT may actually be “thinking” in much the same way we do, i.e. revealing an emergent property of neural nets however they are built: in silicon or protoplasm. A generative property that only emerges when you assemble sufficient neurones: as many as a billion. We’ve been playing with artificial neurones since Pitts and McCulloch in 1943, but only recently has it been possible to build serviceable nets of billions of the things, on which scale the generative property begins to emerge and achieve impressive things. And all without complicated training, which is tantamount to arms-length connecting-up. Simply expose it to examples of what you want it to generate and let it connect itself up. The trickery is in finding what combination of pre-organisation and training regime works best. At our present level of knowledge this is a black art, like mediaeval alchemy, but it is daily becoming more and more informed, codified and predictable.
If left to itself, would ChatGPT be able to write the whole novel for you? People are currently doing just that, and publishing the resultant fabric of words on Amazon as proper books, purporting to paraphrase a popular author’s thoughts on a set topic.
Are the books worth reading? Thinking people say no: they are bland and aimless for the most part, unless that aim has been craftily introduced. If you sit on a horse and let it wander without your guidance, it will wander at random, ending up where the tastiest grass is to be found, or wherever it likes to think of as home. But if you devour books solely for pleasure, without plan or guidance, maybe such novels will satisfy your urge to read. Grass for the mind to graze on.
It’s tempting to imagine that the AI “really knows” what the text is about, in the same way that a horse is quite aware of the terrain it is galloping over, and just needs its rider to give it a sense of purpose and direction to override the untutored one it already has.
But let’s not run away with the idea it is comparable with a living, developing human being. ChatGPT is “a brain in a vat” – having knowledge of nothing but its training set, boiled down to a matrix of interconnections, weights and probabilities. What is amazing is that an author’s style of writing – and more – is not lost when a narrative is reduced to this highly abstracted form.
But… is this anything more to be wondered at, than something we take for granted nowadays: that having the most detailed and evocative illustration reduced to a sequence of red, green and blue glowing dashes (“pixels”), for display on an opto-electronic screen, does not lose the artistry of an old master, nor the authenticity of a photograph. Somehow this mysterious principle can be made to work for an author’s writing style too.
Whitby Writers Group 