conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What could be a title for a book about Kerri, Literary, Song with the genre: Literature & Fiction, Genre Fiction?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this book could be 'The Song Remains the Same'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first four paragraphs for this book.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Song Remains the Same
  My eyelids feel like anchors. There is a drill pounding into the back of my skull. My lungs feel as if someone has dumped a sandbox inside of them, then turned on a blender. I inhale and my ribs bark in reply.
  In the corner, a tall man with the sloping shoulders of a former football player hovers with a woman whose lines have long ago sunk into her eyes. They are both disheveled, worn, fraying on all sides. His brown hair is tucked under a baseball cap, his three-day-old stubble shadowing his face. His ivory DICK'S DRIVE-THRU T-shirt has two coffee stains on the hem, his jeans marred with a splatter of ketchup. She looks no better in a flowy, used purple dress that could double as a nightgown, her kinky graying hair pulled into a knot on top of her head, reminding me of a mushroom.
  She rubs the small of his back and stares out the window to the open landscape of beige dirty rooftops, one of those long stares that betrays her stoicism, that makes you wonder if she isn't about to fall apart entirely.
  I try to grunt, to let them know that I am here, that I am watching, but my mouth is too dry, my tongue unused for too long.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me five more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: I gazed at her and thought not of Peter but instead of my mom, and how even though she knew I needed her to support my memory of that house in Virginia, she didn't: she instead hedged her bets and protected her own self-interest until it became clear that the ruse was up.
  Today, I watch Jasper Aarons studying the Arts section with a certain air of what?: Royalty? Snobbery? Je ne sais quoi? And I am more certain than ever that people are who they are—that I can sum him up in this snapshot of a moment.
  Jasper spies me over the edge of his headline, crumples the paper onto the ground in a haphazard, almost violent way—surprising me, proving that, in fact, maybe I can't read everything about him in this one moment—and flags me over. He moves back the free chair at our table, and then, once I've eased in and gotten comfortable, inches a latte and a scone toward me.
  He stops for a beat, watching the barista make change behind the counter. "You know, your dad wasn't always the best communicator. Get a little vodka in him, and then, yes, he could pour his fucking heart out, but mostly, he spoke via his work. That's what made him so damn magnificent."
  The barista calls out an order for a double-tall skim latte, and Jasper and I fall silent at the truth of his words. That people don't change, and that after a certain point, there's no point in hoping.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last four paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Thank you to Elisabeth Weed, my Jerry Maguire: you had me at hello. (Because saying "you complete me" would be creepy, even if true.)
  Thank you to Laura Dave: my critique partner and the other half of my brain. Also my dear friend who makes me laugh every single day.
  Thank you to Jon Cassir, Jessica Jones, Crystal Patriarche, Lucinda Blumenfeld, and the team at Parents.com, all of whom have been such advocates and friends.
  Finally, thanks to you guys, my readers. I am so, so grateful that I get to make up stories and that you all take the time to read them. You push me to keep going, to keep improving, and not a day goes by that I don't realize that I'm the luckiest woman in the world because of all of you.