conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What could be a title for a story about Writing, Patchwork, Path with the genre: Literature & Fiction, Women's Fiction?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this story could be 'The Island House'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first five paragraphs for this story.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Island House
  The summer Christabel was ten and already beginning to blossom into the intensely female beauty she would become, Desiree ran off with a wealthy German. She filed for divorce, telling Quinn to take full custody; she didn't want their daughter "confused" by the different language and customs of another country.
  By then, Robin was twelve, hearing chatter about Christabel and Quinn from her friends as well as from her mother over the dinner table. It was a sad tale: Christabel became emotionally paralyzed when her mother left. She stayed in bed, unwilling to eat, not surrendering to tears, asking no questions of her father about what had happened—even though Quinn explained it to his daughter in the best, most gentle way possible, over and over again.
  Desiree left at the end of August. When school started, Christabel refused to go. Quinn, who was now known by his peers as "poor Quinn" and by his students as "poor Mr. Eliot," talked with friends about how to help his daughter. Several women, mothers of Christabel's friends, even Susanna, went to the house to sit on the bed and attempt to chat with the mourning girl. Quinn sought professional help, but Christabel refused to speak with anyone.
  But one morning, Quinn came home from teaching to find his daughter sitting on the sofa in the living room, watching a soap opera. Christabel's hair was matted and tangled, her pajamas wrinkled, her face expressionless. But when he made peanut butter toast for her and set it on the table with a glass of juice, she ate and drank. He understood that she was, in her own inarticulate way, coming to terms with her new life. Quinn told Susanna he was appalled by the frothy soap operas his daughter watched, but it seemed to work: therapy by television. He was sure Christabel wasn't the first person to try it.
  Another week later, Christabel walked into the elementary school wearing a scarlet dress of her mother's. She had sliced off the hem so it fell at her knees, and wrapped an orange scarf around and around her torso to bind the larger garment to her own body. She looked wondrously strange, magnificent, even regal. She did not appear pitiful or sad. Somehow Christabel had swallowed the black seed of her grief and it had transformed her, as in a fairy tale, into a princess.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me five more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Henry and Valerie were at the hospital, working until late afternoon, when they vowed to return to Henry's room and sleep for three days straight.
  But there was nothing new to be said. He loved her. He wanted to marry her. She loved him, and wanted to marry him, to be with him forever and ever.
  Outside, she sat on a bench in the library's garden. It was shady here, and on the velvet green lawn, children were playing with a Frisbee, or lying belly down in the grass, chin propped on elbows, reading. Two little boys were climbing on the crooked limbs of crab apple trees. Courtney had always marveled that these two trees, short and not very thick, could support the weight of children, but the trees seemed to flourish under their athletic attention.
  They ran shrieking from each other, they yelled, they fell down, and from a stroller a baby wailed. They were noisy and spirited and as unmanageable as a herd of colts. They wore candy-colored clothing or spotless white with navy blue trim. Of course these were fortunate children, brought here on vacation or living on the island, being carefully watched by parents or nannies.
  Courtney had always assumed she would have a family at some unimaginable point in her life. In her early twenties, she'd been focused on getting her master's, teaching, reading, riding her horse in Kansas and swimming on a Nantucket beach. But later this year she would turn thirty. A milestone. A turning point.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Reverse the sentences.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A turning point.. A milestone. But later this year she would turn thirty. In her early twenties, she'd been focused on getting her master's, teaching, reading, riding her horse in Kansas and swimming on a Nantucket beach.
  Courtney had always assumed she would have a family at some unimaginable point in her life. Of course these were fortunate children, brought here on vacation or living on the island, being carefully watched by parents or nannies. They wore candy-colored clothing or spotless white with navy blue trim. They were noisy and spirited and as unmanageable as a herd of colts.
  They ran shrieking from each other, they yelled, they fell down, and from a stroller a baby wailed. Courtney had always marveled that these two trees, short and not very thick, could support the weight of children, but the trees seemed to flourish under their athletic attention. Two little boys were climbing on the crooked limbs of crab apple trees. It was shady here, and on the velvet green lawn, children were playing with a Frisbee, or lying belly down in the grass, chin propped on elbows, reading.
  Outside, she sat on a bench in the library's garden. She loved him, and wanted to marry him, to be with him forever and ever. He wanted to marry her. He loved her.
  But there was nothing new to be said.Henry and Valerie were at the hospital, working until late afternoon, when they vowed to return to Henry's room and sleep for three days straight
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last three paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Low notes, like those from a cello, floated into the air, joined by higher, flute-like, answering notes. It was as if someone was calling to them from another world. A third note sounded, a bubbling shrill echoing. And a fourth, deep and sonorous.
  Meg Ruley, you are my rock star agent and my Downy Flake best friend. DFF! Thank you for everything. Christina Hogrebe, I don't think I can live without you. Enormous thanks to Danielle Sickles and the brilliant crew at the Jane Rotrosen Agency.
  I am so fortunate to be with the excellent people at Ballantine. I'm very grateful to Gina Centrello, Kim Hovey, Christine Mykityshin, Maggie Oberrender, Paolo Pepe, Elana Seplow-Jolley, and Penelope Haynes.