ASSAY: A JOURNAL OF NONFICTION STUDIES
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Richard A. Decker
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Several weeks ago, I had the opportunity to cover one of my colleague’s classes, a college-level introduction to literature and creative writing. He was open to me teaching any text I felt would fit his nonfiction unit. For inspiration, I turned to the 2022 edition of The Best American Essays edited by Alexander Chee, and it was there that I discovered Vauhini Vara’s “Ghosts,” a piece that, I would argue, transparently and meaningfully uses AI during the writing process and can serve as an excellent text to teach in writing classes.
In her opening paragraphs, Vara explains how she used the AI model GPT-3 via the Playground app to help her tell the story of her sister’s passing (21-22). She was drawn “to the way it offered, without judgment, to deliver words to a writer who has found herself at a loss for them” (22). She began reading different pieces written by GPT 3 and found that for some, “. . . the language was weird, off-kilter—but often poetically so, almost truer than writing any human would produce” (21). She then began telling her sister’s story (which is also a part of her own) by typing into the app only a few words in “canned language” (22). The AI would finish the rest, mirroring her writing style. Eventually, the AI began writing more openly as Vara became more comfortable doing so. The result was her final essay: “nine stories” in which her prompts are presented in bold text and the AI’s responses in non-bold text underneath (22). Vara acknowledges slight changes that were made during the editorial process: “My and my editor’s sole alterations to the AI-generated text were adding paragraph breaks in some instances and shortening the length of a few of the stories; because it has not been edited beyond this, inconsistencies and untruths appear” (22). As a college writing instructor and former high school English teacher, I knew that nothing could be more engaging for my colleague’s students than an essay by a professional writer that uses AI openly, transparently, and meaningfully. I also knew that many students could relate not only to being at a loss for words but also to the difficulty of processing the death of a loved one. After completing my first read through, I was curious as to where Vara’s work was originally published. A quick glance at the front matter led to its original form on The Believer. Here I discovered a digital, semi-interactive nonfiction essay accompanied by animated illustrations (I say “semi-interactive” because, unlike a hypertext or similar form of electronic literature, the reader is simply asked to scroll down the page, which triggers the animated illustrations). It is this digital version students read before class, and it is from this digital version of the essay that the following quotes and summaries will come. I encouraged them to read the digital version alongside the printed one (via a provided PDF copy) before class so they could formulate their own ideas and make their own comparisons. Upon the recommendation of my colleague, I also shared with them a set of reading response questions (see appendix). During class, the students and I discussed the ways in which Vara engages with the AI and the ways in which the digital text’s illustrations (which are credited to Jesse Zhang and completely lost in the print version) contribute to the meaning(s) of Vara’s essay. The following conversation expands on what the students and I discussed as well as on my close reading of the text. __________
Vara’s essay exemplifies how the writing process can aid writers in processing grief. Her writing process incorporates the use of AI which assists her in telling her sister’s story. As a result, the final draft, accompanied by the illustrations, reconstructs the past and the self. The essay’s title page establishes how the illustrations work alongside Vara’s essay. Readers are presented with the title “GHOSTS” in all caps in the foreground. In the background, an illustration blending shades of blue and green: an open laptop and a hand lying over its keyboard. These represent Vara. Emerging from the laptop’s screen is another hand with fingers overlaid with a grid-like pattern. As readers follow the command to “SCROLL,” this hand reaches further out, touching Vara’s. This represents the AI. And the entire illustration represents what is happening in the essay: Vara using the AI as part of her writing process to tell her sister’s story.
As readers scroll down, they encounter the opening paragraphs discussed earlier, which are followed by the next illustration: two floating keyboards, one on the left and one on the right, with a blue-green void in between. The left keyboard’s keys are housed in a greenish casing, representing a physical, plastic keyboard. The right consists only of unhoused keys, representing a virtual, AI writing tool. Vara and the AI are beginning their dialogue. Each of the nine stories begin with an illustration, and each one adds another layer, filling the blue-green void. These illustrations provide a visual representation of what Vara, with the help of the AI, is able to process and create through her writing. The AI’s text, in turn, adds yet another layer to Vara’s essay. As she states in her opening paragraphs, the AI seemed to have a way of producing text that “was weird, off-kilter—but often poetically so, almost truer than writing any human would produce” (emphasis added). The AI text included in Vara’s essay is an intentional choice. She is allowing readers to view her/her sister’s story through the lens of the AI text that accompanies each story—just as she did during her writing process. The AI text is a part of Vara’s essay and provides readers with an interpretive framework through which to identify the emotional truths of her own words. And the illustrations coupled with the AI’s text help readers better understand how Vara’s writing process allows her to process and share her sister’s story. __________
All nine stories follow the same pattern. As readers continue to scroll, they are presented with an animated illustration that builds on the previous one. They then read the next story which begins with Vara’s words in bold and ends with the non-bolded AI’s. Just as each illustration builds on the previous one, so too does Vara build on previous stories, starting right where the last one ended. And the AI builds its responses based on what Vara writes each time. In this way, each story can also be considered a draft: like Vara, readers re-read what was written in the previous iteration and then read the new material as they would if writing multiple drafts of their own work. A prime example of a writing process. And the themes of process—of reconstruction and progression—are present throughout the essay.
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The first story opens with Vara’s words in bold: “My sister was diagnosed with Ewing sarcoma when I was in my freshman year of high school and she was in her junior year.” This first entry is short. Little detail and no mention of death. Vara has not reached that point. This is a first draft. The AI assists her in moving on to the second. Scrolling down triggers an animation where the non-bold AI text appears on the screen as if being typed into a chat box. It takes on the role of Vara, telling a story full of “inconsistencies and untruths” that both the real Vara and readers would want to be true: a story about how Vara’s sister “went into remission and got the all-clear and was able to play lacrosse with me [Vara] for a season.” The AI ends by saying the sister is “doing great now.” However, both readers and Vara know this is not the case. The writing process has only just started; Vara has only just begun processing her sister’s story, and arguably, her grief by extension.
The second illustration features two sets of hands hovering over each keyboard. On the left, a set of greenish hands represent Vara’s. On the right, a set of blueish hands overlaid with a grid-like pattern represent the AI’s. In the second story/draft, Vara addresses her sister’s passing: “She died four years later. I thought I would die, too, of grief, but I did not.” The AI repeats the phrase “I’ve run” several times, using the act of running to symbolize the distance between Vara and her sister. However, with the help of the AI, Vara works to reduce this distance. To close the gap. The next illustration plays on this idea: the back of a laptop screen appears on Vara’s side, moving to the right toward the AI’s hands. The green-blue gap in the center is gradually beginning to close. After her sister passed, Vara says, “I spent the summer at home, in Seattle, then returned to college, at Stanford. When I arrived there, the campus hadn’t changed, but I had. I felt like a ghost.” Vara’s words speak of emptiness. Of loss. Her sister, now passed on, is a ghost. Vara, too, feels like a ghost. Her grief causes her to feel absent from the world. A gap exists; a void is felt. What will fill it? The AI eerily conveys meaning through its untruths. It first takes on the voice of Vara: “I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t sleep. I thought my body had died, without telling me. I was practicing, though. I was practicing my grief” (emphasis added). It draws from Vara’s emptiness to address the idea of “practicing” or processing grief. It fabricates a strange interaction between Vara and a creative writing professor. The professor gives her a business card. “‘When you feel better, come see me’ . . . ‘I’ll help you.’” Later, after reading Vara’s poetry, he says, “I don’t know anything about your sister, but I feel like I know you.’ . . . ‘I’m in love with you.’” From the outset, a strange and creepy interaction. But, given the interpretive framework established by the AI’s text and the illustrations, it can serve as a symbolic representation of what the AI is helping Vara do. In this case, the professor represents the AI helping Vara undergo a writing process that helps her begin processing her grief. And the love the professor expresses is the love that Vara and her sister once shared, which Vara is beginning to experience again by writing about her sister. Through the writing process, Vara begins to fill a void that was left when her sister passed on. Readers scroll on. They see a wavy, rectangular object in the center blending dark and light shades of blue. The void continues to be filled. Vara continues adding to her sister’s story. This time, just one more line: “At night, my sister would appear in my dreams.” This adds to the apparitional mood of the previous story/draft, touching on the idea of Vara being visited by her sister within her mind and imagination—like a ghost. At one point, the AI speaks to the idea of processing: “After my sister’s death, I saw a therapist, but I didn’t find her helpful. . . . I felt the whole time that her agenda was to make me feel better, not to help me work through my grief” (emphasis added). The AI addresses how Vara desires to “work through [her] grief,” which is accomplished as Vara encounters her sister’s ghost (so to speak) by unpacking these memories and putting them onto the page. To be clear, however, the AI is not a stand in for therapy or a therapeutic tool (and should never be in any case). Instead, it is a tool assisting Vara in writing her sister’s story; writing her sister’s story is what I am arguing serves as a means of processing grief for Vara—not the AI. Next, wavy blue-green lines appear to emanate from Vara’s laptop screen and hover over the blueish rectangle. And Vara begins to include more detail. At one point, she states, “Here I should conjure my sister for you [readers/AI]. Here I should describe her, so that you feel her absence as I do—so that you’re made ghostly by it, too. But, though I’m a writer, I’ve never been able to conjure her. I remember the same small set of details:” The colon at the end is significant. It prompts the AI to attempt to “conjure” Vara’s sister. It attempts to do so with fabricated descriptions, playing into not only the ghost motif but also affirming the idea of Vara’s attempt to reconstruct the memories of her sister through the written word. The following illustration conjures a box-like tunnel that emanates from Vara’s laptop, surrounding the wavy blue-green lines as it moves toward the AI’s hands. Vara conjures memories of her sister after the colon: “her loud laugh; her bossiness and swagger; her self-consciousness about her broad nose, her curly hair. But even this isn’t fixed. Her hair fell out. Her nose narrowed. She began moving slowly and carefully . . .” Through Vara’s AI-assisted writing process, she begins to conjure the memories of her sister in her own words. Like the illustrations, these memories are not “fixed”—they shift. They are difficult to pin down. But Vara continues to fill the void, and as she does so, she not only reconstructs the image of her sister but also her own image. Her own self. The AI, taking on Vara’s voice, states, “I’m not a religious person, but I do believe in ghosts. Not the ghosts of the dead, but the ghosts of the living. The ghosts of people who, because of a trauma, have lost their sense of themselves” (emphasis added). The AI addresses the idea that as Vara struggles through her grief, she struggles to find a sense of self. Her writing is a means of working through this struggle. A greenish wave now emanates from the AI keyboard. The tunnel continues to move toward the AI as the void continues to fill. Vara continues to conjure the memories of her final days with her sister as the AI continues to respond. Drawing from Vara’s descriptions of her and her sister returning from Clarke Beach, the AI says, “This is the hand she held: the hand I write with, the hand I am writing this with. She held it for a long time. I looked at our hands, hers so much paler than mine. . . . I didn’t want her to let go. I wanted her to hold my hand for the rest of my life.” Different hands come together—blend together like Vara’s text and the AI’s text and the illustrations’ colors and images. Vara longs to hold her sister’s hand. The AI currently holds Vara’s hand as she writes. A grid-like pattern now overlays the greenish wave, and as the tunnel moves toward the left, the grid moves toward the right. The void continues to be filled as Vara writes down more memories of her final days with her sister. The AI recognizes that she has lost a part of herself: “I felt I had lost half of myself. . . . I felt I had lost my heart. I felt I had lost my mind. . . . I felt I had lost everything.” But it recognizes that this is not completely true: “And yet, I did not lose everything. I did not stop being me. I did not stop existing. . . . I had lost my entire world, and yet I had not lost the world.” Vara feels like a ghost. Yet, she knows she is still alive and still exists and must continue to exist. She must continue to live. But, to do this, she must undergo the process of writing her sister’s story. To write is to exist. To stay alive. There now stands in the middle two female figures: one is a more solid figure—a blend of blue and green representing Vara. The other is a blurry, blueish figure representing Vara’s sister being conjured by Vara’s words as she interacts with the AI. In the ninth and final story/draft, Vara mentions a voice recording of her sister on which she says, “‘The happiest thing right now is, I learned to talk openly. It works really, really well.’ . . . ‘In relationships, too, you have to always tell what you’re thinking. Don’t hide anything. Take chances.’” She encourages Vara to speak her mind. To share her thoughts. To not “hide anything” and to “[t]ake chances.” This openness came for Vara when she took a chance by having the AI help her write her sister’s story. Vara’s story concludes with the lessons that her sister taught her: “Once upon a time, my sister taught me to read. She taught me to wait for a mosquito to swell on my arm and then slap it and see the blood spurt out. She taught me to insult racists back. To swim. To pronounce English so I sounded less Indian. To shave my legs without cutting myself. To lie to our parents believably.” The AI then provides its shortest but most impactful response: “To do math. To tell stories. Once upon a time, she taught me to exist” (emphasis added). This final story/draft contains the least amount of AI text. A sign that Vara has finished telling her sister’s story (at least for now); her writing process has come to an end (at least for now). And through this process, I believe she has also been able to begin processing her grief. Readers continue to scroll. White space fills the page. A space in which to consider those final lines. Then, in a flash, three female figures appear in the center where the void once was. One in the foreground and two in the background to the left and to the right. The one in the foreground is a more solid, blueish-green figure. The one to the left is of similar colors but much more blurred. And the third to the right is blurry and of a different shade than the other two. A possible reading of this illustration might interpret each figure as Vara, Vara’s sister, and the AI respectively. There are, of course, several ways in which Vara’s essay and its illustrations can be read. I do not want to suggest my reading is the only possible one. Furthermore, given how personal the topic is to Vara, I do not want to suggest that I know or understand what she has gone through or that what I am saying speaks for her or her sister. My purpose is instead to reveal, as carefully as I can, what I believe the text itself suggests when read closely: that Vara, through an AI-assisted writing process, reconstructs her sister’s memory—conjures her “ghost.” This, in a way, allows Vara to reconnect with her sister and appears to help her continue to live and exist. And the AI, in assisting Vara, conjures up a fictional, imaginative version of both her and her sister, seemingly giving Vara an ephemeral space in which to begin using the writing process as a means of processing her grief. Process as processing. __________
My goal in teaching Vara’s essay to my colleague’s students was multifaceted. I wanted them to see how nonfiction writing in general might serve as a way in which to process grief. I wanted them to see a way in which electronic literature can convey meaning that is lost in print (though I do not have any bias toward one form or another). And I wanted them to see one way in which AI has been used to help write a nonfiction piece in a manner that is open, transparent, and meaningful. This last lesson, I believe, is most relevant for this conversation, as I am sure many reading teach writing to some degree. Students who are steeped in the age of AI need writing teachers who can help them see that the writing process can still be a relevant and effective way of processing our experiences and discovering ourselves as we live out the human experience. And it is still a human experience. As AI and other digital forms continue to change the way we write and teach, it is imperative that we recognize in our classrooms and in our work that the human element cannot be replaced. Vara may have been assisted by the AI, and it does provide some eerily enlightening insights when read through certain lenses, but she never forsakes the role of author. She chooses to use the AI. She chooses what to write in its text box. She chooses to include the AI’s text in her essay. Her words are in bold—not the AI’s. She is completely intentional and transparent. And her essay continues to be meaningful and impactful in various ways when readers like us and our students discuss and relate to it. We still exist. Just as Vara exists and just as her sister’s memory exists. Though the process might have changed and is everchanging, writing still allows us to acknowledge this existence—even after death.
I would like to thank my colleague Joe Sacksteder and all his students for welcoming me into their class to discuss Vara’s impactful essay. |
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Richard A. Decker is a Writing Coordinator for Sweet Briar College and a Ph.D. student in literature and criticism at Indiana University of Pennsylvania.
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