conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What could be a title for a book about Frances, Libby, Libby's with the genre: Teen & Young Adult, Literature & Fiction?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this book could be 'Daughter of Deep Silence'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the first five paragraphs for this book.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Daughter of Deep Silence
  It's hard to find fault with the kind of man who takes in strays like Shepherd and me. Because of Cecil, there was no door closed to me. Except the one to my past. That is why I both love him and hate him.
  He saved me, in so many ways: from the ocean; from the tides of whatever system I'd have been thrown into back in Ohio. But the one lifeline he'd cut from me was to that of my own identity.
  At the time it had seemed so simple and clear, his reasoning so solid and understandable. Of course it would be easier for me to take his daughter's place, to assume her life. And it's not like the thought of becoming Libby didn't hold its own appeal.
  Frances's future was nothing but a gaping black hole. Not Libby's. She still had a brightness to her. Alive I'd envied her. Dead I could become her.
  Except that she is still there inside me, growing restless. Perhaps I should have had more faith in her. Perhaps I should have given her a chance.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide five more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: But just as on the yacht when I lay on the bed where they'd placed Libby's body, I don't belong here. I am not dead the way Libby and Frances are.
  Which is what pushes me to my feet. I grab the shovel and thrust the bladed end into the ground. Letting anger bolster my courage and spur me forward.
  Thankfully, it's a myth that a grave must be dug six feet deep. In actuality, most cemeteries only require twenty-four inches of dirt between the top of the coffin and the surface. Just enough to make sure the grass can grow back.
  Which is a good thing because, even fueled by rage, my muscles begin to protest before long. By the end of the first hour, they're burning and at the end of the second they're screaming.
  That's when the tip of the shovel connects with something solid. And I gasp. With relief and perhaps also a bit of dread.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the first sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: I am not dead the way Libby and Frances are.
  Which is what pushes me to my feet. I grab the shovel and thrust the bladed end into the ground. Letting anger bolster my courage and spur me forward.
  Thankfully, it's a myth that a grave must be dug six feet deep. In actuality, most cemeteries only require twenty-four inches of dirt between the top of the coffin and the surface. Just enough to make sure the grass can grow back.
  Which is a good thing because, even fueled by rage, my muscles begin to protest before long. By the end of the first hour, they're burning and at the end of the second they're screaming.
  That's when the tip of the shovel connects with something solid. And I gasp. With relief and perhaps also a bit of dread.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the last paragraph.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: There were many hurdles in the way of getting here, but JP was there at every one, ready to catch me if and when I tripped. Thank you, my love!