conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What could be a title for a book about Nashville, Atlanta, Earning with the genre: Science Fiction & Fantasy, Fantasy?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this book could be 'West of Sunset'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: the first four paragraphs for this book
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: West of Sunset
  He knew too well how quickly she could turn, especially after a good stretch, and expected word, any day, that she'd attacked someone, or hurt herself, or fallen into that faraway state he'd come to understand as her last hiding place. Retreating himself, he couldn't see her breaking free.
  It was typical for him to be stirred up after a visit. In his dissipation he was almost grateful he didn't have to face Sheilah, except that he missed her. He sent her roses with poems begging forgiveness. They didn't move her, but, as he'd figured, she was too polite not to acknowledge them.
  She still wouldn't see him, so it was into this bitter limbo, one afternoon as he was stewing at his desk in the Iron Lung, that a wire arrived for him, not from Ober or Max or Dr. Carroll but Ginevra King.
  She was in Santa Barbara, visiting her son Buddy at a clinic, and she'd heard Scott was working at MGM. Next week she had to come down to L.A. to take care of some business, and she wondered if they might get together.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: two more paragraphs
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Bogie and Mayo weren't home, or weren't answering. He could drive one-handed, except he didn't know where to go. Sheilah might think he was looking for sympathy, and maybe he was, but she was the only person he knew in the city and he was too tired and in too much pain to care, and rather than play the stoic hero, he gave in and called her.
  She drove him to the emergency room where they took x-rays and a nurse bound his arm in a sling. It was just a sprain. They gave him painkillers and released him to Sheilah.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the first sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: He could drive one-handed, except he didn't know where to go. Sheilah might think he was looking for sympathy, and maybe he was, but she was the only person he knew in the city and he was too tired and in too much pain to care, and rather than play the stoic hero, he gave in and called her.
  She drove him to the emergency room where they took x-rays and a nurse bound his arm in a sling. It was just a sprain. They gave him painkillers and released him to Sheilah.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: the last five paragraphs
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: He felt fine, just tired, his back kinked from sleep. He could have used a cup of coffee or a Coke. It was a brilliant day, the sun sharp on the carpet, twinkling off the ornaments on the lower branches. In London it was nighttime and bombs were falling around Edward R. Murrow, sirens keening. The docks were on fire. All of Hollywood, Sheilah had said, and half of Beverly Hills. They listened till the end, unable to turn away.
  The needle lifted, the arm retracting, clicking in place, leaving silence. Sheilah looked over and smiled. He smiled back to reassure her.
  He opened it, broke off a pane, then snapped that into three pieces. The chocolate dissolved on his tongue.
  The backfield was easy, and the ends. Dietz and who else at tackle? Carroll, Coffin. Something with a hard C. He could see the team picture in the trophy case in Old Nassau, the unit insignias of the dead. Baker had died in his Spad, nosing it in. Collins. Carrington.
  That quickly the bar was gone, the empty wrapper a shed skin. He stood to throw it away, the distraction just enough to dislodge the name—Carpenter!—when a tremor shocked his heart.