conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What could be a title for a book about Song, quot, Muslim with the genre: Literature & Fiction, Women's Fiction?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this book could be 'A New Song'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide a description for a book titled A New Song about Christian, Beebe, Wilma with the genre: Christian Books & Bibles, Literature & Fiction.. End with the sentence ' She has participated in New Writers at Zentao 7, and also PC Quill, both Internet writing critique groups with published author, Kimberly Comeau.'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: W. Beebe the author (Wilma) is a new author to the world of Christian writing. This is her fourth novel. Her passion for Christian Romance fuels her desire to create inspiring books for teenagers and young adults, and writing has been her lifelong dream. She lives with her husband of fifty-plus years on a small farm in southeastern Montana where they raise cattle and grow hay. She is a mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother, and loves nothing more than spending time with her family. She loves animals of all kinds, her favorites being her two Yorkies, Buttonz and Beauz. She is an artist, a photographer, and a crafter. She has taught watercolor, knitting and card-making, among several other crafts, and has led several Bible studies, both online and in person. She has participated in New Writers at Zentao 7, and also PC Quill, both Internet writing critique groups with published author, Kimberly Comeau.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the first five paragraphs for this book.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A New Song
  The truth was, there'd be a veritable woof of men to look after the boy, not to mention a fine warp of women, including Puny, and Dooley's mother, and now Adele.
  Adele stood with her thumbs tucked into her belt, appearing for a moment to be hired security. She had come straight from the station in her uniform, wearing a Glock nine-millimeter on her hip. The sight of Adele, who was the new hotshot coach of the Mitford Reds and also the grandmother of three, never failed to astonish and impress him.
  The mayor barged up and slapped him on the other shoulder. He nearly pitched into the Wurlitzer, which was now playing "One Mint Julep."
  Esther narrowed her eyes and peered at him. "I guess you know about th' hurricanes they get down there."
  Mule sighed. "I hope it's not that deal about th' gas stove! I've heard that more times than Carter has liver pills."
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide five more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: He turned and lunged for the bottom rung of the ladder, but miscalculated and bounced onto the rail. Too startled to grab hold, he reeled against the cabin wall, finally managing to grip the lower rung. Thanks be to God, Pete was baiting a hook and facing seaward, and his cabin mates were oblivious to his afflictions.
  The spray was flying, the waves were churning, the sun was risin1...it was now or never. He swung himself onto the ladder and went up, trying in vain to curl his tennis shoes around the rungs like buns around frankfurters.
  He hauled himself to the bridge, grabbed the support rail for the hard top, and stood for a moment, awed. The view from the bridge literally took his breath away.
  His shirt whipped against his body like a flag; his knees trembled. This boat was flying, no two ways about it, and beneath their feet, the endless, racking, turbulent sea, and a sunrise advancing up the sky like tongues of fire.
  He lurched to the helm, where Captain Willie was holding a microphone, and grabbed the back of the helm chair.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the first sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Too startled to grab hold, he reeled against the cabin wall, finally managing to grip the lower rung. Thanks be to God, Pete was baiting a hook and facing seaward, and his cabin mates were oblivious to his afflictions.
  The spray was flying, the waves were churning, the sun was risin1...it was now or never. He swung himself onto the ladder and went up, trying in vain to curl his tennis shoes around the rungs like buns around frankfurters.
  He hauled himself to the bridge, grabbed the support rail for the hard top, and stood for a moment, awed. The view from the bridge literally took his breath away.
  His shirt whipped against his body like a flag; his knees trembled. This boat was flying, no two ways about it, and beneath their feet, the endless, racking, turbulent sea, and a sunrise advancing up the sky like tongues of fire.
  He lurched to the helm, where Captain Willie was holding a microphone, and grabbed the back of the helm chair.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the last four paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: He shrugged. 'This is the way a lot of people's bedrooms look.' Dooley's room in the early days of living at the rectory, for instance.
  He looked around again, paying attention. Message light blinking on a phone by the bed, windows raised a few inches, empty hangers on a closet door pull. They walked into the bathroom. Windows open a couple of inches. Drops of moisture on the glass door of the shower. A towel on the floor.
  He stooped and felt the towel—damp—then looked out to the rear lawn. That would be the studio, surrounded by a fairly ambitious garden with an open potting shed. Beyond, a dense thicket of rhododendron and oaks.
  How did they manage to everlastingly insinuate themselves into other people's business, Ireland being a prime example?