conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me a plot for a book about Barbara, Jean, Barbara's entitled I'm Dancing as Fast as I Can.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: I'm Dancing as Fast as I Can: Barbara Gordon appears to have it all, including a successful career in a male-dominated industry and a solid relationship with her live-in lover, attorney Derek Bauer.\nBeneath her facade is a high-strung personality who heavily relies on sedatives to reduce tension and anxiety and maintain a composed exterior for her friends and associates.\nHer current project focuses on cancer patient Jean Scott Martin and her husband Ben and how the couple is coping as the disease progresses.\nDespite reservations expressed by her collaborators, Barbara is determined to end the film on a positive note, showing the Martins embracing on the beach.\nWhen she shows them a rough cut, fatalistic Jean is angered by the false optimism and vehemently voices her objections to Barbara's choices.\nThe response triggers a deep depression in Barbara, who relies on Doctor Kalman, her therapist of many years, and an increased dosage of Valium to see her through the crisis.\nShe finally reaches a turning point when she realizes Kalman's treatment has been ineffective and admits her dependence on drugs is controlling her life.\nHer effort to quit cold turkey results in a rapid physical, mental, and emotional deterioration fueled by Derek's refusal to let her seek medical help and his alcohol-driven determination to control her completely.\nFollowing a series of physical fights, he imprisons her - bruised, bloodied, and broken - by tying her to a chair.\nShe manages to convince him they had dinner plans with friends Karen and Sam Mulligan, and when he calls them to cancel, her screams for help alert them to her situation.\nBarbara is institutionalized and begins a long and arduous journey towards recovery with the help of Julie Addison.\nDuring this period, she is visited by Jean, who confesses she may have overreacted to Barbara's film and feels a sense of guilt over her breakdown.\nHer encouragement inspires Barbara to get well and complete the project.\nJean suggests she end the film with an image of Barbara herself walking on the beach, and she complies with her wishes.\nJean dies before seeing the completed work, but a newly confident Barbara is certain she would have approved of it.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: I'm Dancing as Fast as I Can: Barbara Gordon appears to have it all, including a successful career in a male-dominated industry and a solid relationship with her live-in lover, attorney Derek Bauer.\nBeneath her facade is a high-strung personality who heavily relies on sedatives to reduce tension and anxiety and maintain a composed exterior for her friends and associates.\nHer current project focuses on cancer patient Jean Scott Martin and her husband Ben and how the couple is coping as the disease progresses.\nDespite reservations expressed by her collaborators, Barbara is determined to end the film on a positive note, showing the Martins embracing on the beach.\nWhen she shows them a rough cut, fatalistic Jean is angered by the false optimism and vehemently voices her objections to Barbara's choices.\nThe response triggers a deep depression in Barbara, who relies on Doctor Kalman, her therapist of many years, and an increased dosage of Valium to see her through the crisis.\nShe finally reaches a turning point when she realizes Kalman's treatment has been ineffective and admits her dependence on drugs is controlling her life.\nHer effort to quit cold turkey results in a rapid physical, mental, and emotional deterioration fueled by Derek's refusal to let her seek medical help and his alcohol-driven determination to control her completely.\nFollowing a series of physical fights, he imprisons her - bruised, bloodied, and broken - by tying her to a chair.\nShe manages to convince him they had dinner plans with friends Karen and Sam Mulligan, and when he calls them to cancel, her screams for help alert them to her situation.\nBarbara is institutionalized and begins a long and arduous journey towards recovery with the help of Julie Addison.\nDuring this period, she is visited by Jean, who confesses she may have overreacted to Barbara's film and feels a sense of guilt over her breakdown.\nHer encouragement inspires Barbara to get well and complete the project.\nJean suggests she end the film with an image of Barbara herself walking on the beach, and she complies with her wishes.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first five paragraphs for this book.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: I'm Dancing as Fast as I Can
  I wished it were fiction when I read how I had been a collaborator in the collapse of my world. It can happen in a nanosecond; unaware, we can cede our precious possession—our own power and individuality—to others. In my case, the "others" were a partner who turned out to be Mr. Wrong and a doctor woefully ill-informed whose advice nearly cost me my life. Believing, as most people did at that time, that all doctors are god-like, I was the good patient, docile and compliant. I left the inquiring mind, so essential in my work, in the waiting room, and followed the doctor's advice to a tee.
  One issue remains the same as it was three decades ago. The person with a drug problem is not necessarily a teenager shooting up in a dark alley or snorting cocaine at an all-night party. It may be a woman turned out in an elegant suit and flawless make-up, who carries an attaché case as she clicks her way down an office hallway in stiletto heels to attend a meeting. Or a man on a plane whose eyes are riveted to the screen of his laptop, his demeanor projecting control, self-possession. Although today's drug takers may be less obvious than the old-fashioned picture of the backstreet junkie, even if they are dependent on medications "sanitized" by having been prescribed by physicians, they are still addicted to drugs, just as I was in 1979.
  The choice I had to make was an extreme—the choice between life and death—but surrounding it were the concerns of identity that trouble so many of us today: how to connect, to emerge, to touch a bell, and to remain whole. I do not ask others to follow my example—but I hope that in my experiences they may find the strength and courage to see themselves and their choices more clearly.
  I have told my story as honestly as I can. Obviously, it has been important to me to protect the identity and privacy of the other people involved in this story, so names and details have been changed for this reason.
  I was making a film about a dying woman. Compared to what I had been doing, it seemed as if this one would be easy because there were no facts to verify, no painstaking research, no bad guys, just directing the cameras and interviewing Jean. She had cancer. The only villain was time. After an exhausting year of producing tough investigative films about Nazi war criminals and slumlords, following Mayor Jean Barris through her daily round as she fought for her life would be a piece of cake. Now, locked in the editing room with Steve Isaacs, my film editor, we sat side by side in high editing room chairs, peering at the Moviola, listening to Jean, staring at her face. She never looked as if she was suffering. The phone rang. I motioned to Steve to keep screening: I had developed my own way of handling people who interrupted my work in the editing room.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me three more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Dr. Addison and I walked them to the elevator. I heard her say that I would have no visitors for a while, no phone calls, and part of me felt a sense of relief. I wanted to see no one, talk to no one. Edie hugged me and started into the elevator. My mother and I held on to each other, tears squeezing out of my eyes, tears filling hers. "Barbara darling, take care, take care," she said. I saw how strong she wanted to be for me and that made my pain more intense. The elevator door closed and they were gone.
  Dr. Addison led me back through the madness and chaos of the hall to the small, glass-enclosed office, where I met some of the rest of the staff—the nurses, the attendants. Everyone was in street clothes—no uniforms, no starched whites. She had long blond hair and looked like a cheerleader. "You will be on C.O. for forty-eight hours, Barbara," she said. "That means you will be under constant observation until we get to know you, even while you eat and in the bathroom. And someone will be outside your room watching while you sleep. But don't worry, it's something everybody goes through."
  It was still mid-afternoon. I sat in the hall, with Connie standing beside my chair. I smoked cigarette after cigarette. She reached into her pocket for her lighter again and again, watching me as I watched the madness everywhere.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Add another sentence about Connie, introduced, named.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Dr. Addison and I walked them to the elevator. I heard her say that I would have no visitors for a while, no phone calls, and part of me felt a sense of relief. I wanted to see no one, talk to no one. Edie hugged me and started into the elevator. My mother and I held on to each other, tears squeezing out of my eyes, tears filling hers. "Barbara darling, take care, take care," she said. I saw how strong she wanted to be for me and that made my pain more intense. The elevator door closed and they were gone. 
  Dr. Addison led me back through the madness and chaos of the hall to the small, glass-enclosed office, where I met some of the rest of the staff—the nurses, the attendants. Everyone was in street clothes—no uniforms, no starched whites. I was introduced to a young nurse named Connie. She had long blond hair and looked like a cheerleader. "You will be on C. O. for forty-eight hours, Barbara," she said. "That means you will be under constant observation until we get to know you, even while you eat and in the bathroom. And someone will be outside your room watching while you sleep. But don't worry, it's something everybody goes through. "
  It was still mid-afternoon. I sat in the hall, with Connie standing beside my chair. I smoked cigarette after cigarette. She reached into her pocket for her lighter again and again, watching me as I watched the madness everywhere.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last five paragraphs.. End with the sentence '"'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Still I scorned the idea of going public. It was too private, too painful, too embarrassing. People wouldn't hire me again, love me again, laugh with me again. I knew about the prejudice and suspicion that greet a mental patient wherever he goes. If I kept quiet, that wouldn't happen to me. But it did. And suddenly it was very important to write about what happened—to stop the whispers, the unreturned phone calls, the unanswered letters. I had to clean the air, my air. And if along the way I could unfog someone else's atmosphere, that would be my dividend, my reward.
  I had another concern. It was my realization that almost everyone I met in the hospital had been a patient of a psychiatrist outside, and that they all had taken large amounts of mindaltering drugs, generally on the advice and with the consent of their doctors. The number of Americans being given large doses of tranquilizers by their internists, obstetricians, dentists—let alone psychiatrists—is staggering. But they aren't just medicines. They are drugs that can be anesthetics of the emotions. And their sudden withdrawal can precipitate psychosis and, in some cases, death. Because of my strong feelings about medical mismanagement, because of the prevalence of drug abuse—and the softcore prescription-pad variety is drug abuse all the same—I felt I had to tell my story.
  I have lived in the cellar of my soul, unable to feel warmth, unable to love, unable to cry, to taste, to smell. I have looked in the mirror and my own reflection shrugged back at me as if to say, "I don't know who you are either, Barbara." I think I know who I am now. But have I reached any decisions of cosmic importance? Not really.
  Death is an indictment we all share. All human beings hold the tools of their own destruction. And I came perilously close to using mine. I decided against it, and now I am refashioning my life. Sometimes I still wobble and totter and lurch like a boat casting off its moorings and setting out to sea. But I am not sailing into the sunset. Not yet. Still when I look at the ocean from my house on the shore, the ever-changing colors of the sea, the motion of the waves, the view of the distant horizon, remind me once again that living is better than dying.
  I think I know who I am now because of a new strength in myself, and the strength of the people who have been close to me. It is better to remember them than all the people who contributed to the illness along the way. No more scapegoats. And no happy ending either, no epiphany, no single moment of synthesis and complete understanding with flashing lights and the roar of drums. Long, laborious, painful, expensive, frustrating and time-consuming, living is. But living is preferable. As Woody Allen says, "I'm not afraid of death, I just don't like the hours."