AI vs. Human Authors: Reevaluating New York Times’ Beach Read Experiment

Last month, The New York Times conducted an experiment. They published two 1,000-word “beach reads.” One was written by bestselling author Curtis Sittenfeld, and the other by ChatGPT. Readers were asked if they could distinguish between the human and AI-generated stories.

You can read them here and see if you can spot the human one vs the AI-written one. It should be pretty apparent which came from the successful, award-winning author and which was generated by a bot.

As someone who has been “writing” books under an AI pen name for two years now, I continue to believe that creative AI-written works suck. But there is potential. The NYT experiment doesn’t truly showcase that potential today.

Sittenfeld spent a month crafting her 1,200-word story while the AI generated its version in 17 seconds. Sure, AI is faster, but it didn’t do as many reps, putting it at a significant disadvantage. We can leverage this by having the AI revise and improve its work multiple times, mimicking a human writer’s process.

To demonstrate this, I conducted my own experiment to improve the original AI-generated story. I used a series of seven generic prompts (without reading or editing the story between iterations) to enhance the AI’s output.

Below are the prompts, the final AI piece, and my own final thoughts. You can also follow its progression in the original ChatGPT thread. Enjoy.

The prompts

(Again, these were generic prompts I came up with before running this. Actually, reading the story and giving specific feedback should make for a better output.)

1. <Paste original article> Hi, I just had you write a 1000-word work of fiction in the style of Curtis Sittenfeld, and I must say it is pretty bland. There is no excitement, and it is all predictable. It isn’t something someone would want to sit down and read on the beach. The themes of the piece are “Lust, regret, kissing, middle age, flip-flops” in that order. Take another shot at this. Do what you can to do it in Curtis Sittenfeld’s style, but more importantly, make it exciting. Make it enjoyable and have lots of unique details. It is those human elements that make a story special. This is something that is going in the New York Times. We really need to make this a quality piece.
2. Okay. Not bad. I’d say it is a C-. Go in with an editor’s brain and see what magic you can make in here. Again, a 1000-word beach read focused on “Lust, regret, kissing, middle age, flip-flops”
3. It’s been two weeks since you wrote that. I want you to imagine you are an avid reader of summertime fiction. You are sitting on a beach in Kauai in the beautifully bright sun with nothing but clear blue water stretching to the horizon. You read this. What are your thoughts? Mention the few things you like, but more so, where’s the room for improvement? What would you like to see? You wanted to read an exciting beach read in the style of Curtis Sittenfeld that has “Lust, regret, kissing, middle age, flip-flops”. Where did it miss the mark?
4. Now, as the writer. I want you to incorporate that feedback. But maybe not all the feedback. Have a critical eye. You know what is best for this work and how to make a 1000-word Curtis Sittenfeld-styled work that has “Lust, regret, kissing, middle age, flip-flops.” Give a tight rewrite.
5. Two more weeks pass. You are making progress on this work, and you have been thinking about ideas in your spare time on how to make it better. What are some of the brainstorm ideas you have to make this piece better? Collect all your thoughts here. You still have time to rewrite this. No idea is too big. There’s time to change if needed.
6. Ok. Now take those brainstorm ideas. And rewrite what you previously wrote. Make this thing amazing! Keep the good from before and remove the bad. We want an award-winning 1000-word Curtis Sittenfeld-styled work that has “Lust, regret, kissing, middle age, flip-flops.”
7. Two more weeks pass, and the deadline for this work is in three days. There is time for you to step back and create one final draft. Bring in all the good parts, all the odd details, all the things that make a fiction story unique. With that, draft a final 1000-word Curtis Sittenfeld-styled work that has “Lust, regret, kissing, middle age, flip-flops”

The Finished Product: “The Flip-Flop Moment”

Lydia had been practical for so long, she’d forgotten what it felt like not to be. At 48, practicality was stitched into everything: her carefully chosen words, the neutral tones of her wardrobe, the way she’d folded herself into routines. But today, something had broken loose.

Her flip-flops slapped against the sidewalk as she made her way to Java Junction. They were old, worn down from years of summers past. The leather had stretched, molded to her feet, but she hadn’t worn them in ages. They reminded her of the woman she used to be — the one who’d made spontaneous decisions, who hadn’t been weighed down by single motherhood and the quiet grief of widowhood.

She stepped into the cool, familiar hum of the coffee shop, the air-conditioning pressing against the July heat. She ordered her usual iced coffee, then paused, scanning the room. Julie wasn’t here yet — Julie was always late — but it was something else that caught Lydia’s attention.

A man sat alone at the back, leaning into a book, elbows propped on the small table. His feet, bare except for a pair of faded leather flip-flops, rested on the chair across from him. He was tan, with sandy, sun-streaked hair that curled slightly at his neck. He looked completely at ease, as if the world outside couldn’t touch him. Lydia couldn’t look away.

He lifted his head as though sensing her gaze. Their eyes met, and he smiled — not a wide grin, but a small, knowing smile, like they were sharing a secret across the room. Lydia felt her stomach flutter in a way that was foreign to her now, something she hadn’t felt since… well, she didn’t want to think about how long it had been.

She quickly took her seat by the window, her usual spot. The sunlight spilled across her lap, warming her even as her iced coffee chilled her fingers. She needed to focus, shake off this ridiculous feeling. She wasn’t the kind of woman who approached strangers in coffee shops. She had a life. Responsibilities. A teenage son who was growing distant, a job that required all her focus. And yet, she couldn’t stop herself from glancing back at him.

Julie breezed in moments later, all chaotic energy and color. She dropped into the chair across from Lydia, sunglasses still perched on her head. “God, the heat out there. You’d think I’d be used to it by now, but nope. Every summer it’s the same.”

Lydia smiled, but her thoughts were still lingering on the man in the corner. Julie followed her gaze and raised an eyebrow. “Who’s that?”

“No one,” Lydia said quickly, then sighed. “I don’t know. Just… someone.”

Julie smirked. “He’s cute. You should talk to him.”

“Julie, stop.” Lydia shook her head, though her stomach flipped at the thought. “I’m not going to just… go talk to a random guy.”

“Why not?” Julie leaned in, voice conspiratorial. “When’s the last time you flirted with anyone?”

Lydia looked down at her iced coffee, the condensation making her fingers slip on the cup. She couldn’t answer that. “I don’t know.”

“Exactly. You’ve got nothing to lose.”

Lydia glanced back at the man. He had shifted slightly, folding down the corner of his book, looking up just in time to catch her staring again. His smile widened, just a little. It was enough to make her breath catch.

What if you did? The thought was reckless, and she pushed it aside. But Julie was watching her with that look — the one that said I know you better than you know yourself.

“Go,” Julie urged. “Just say hi. Worst thing that happens? It’s awkward, and you laugh about it with me later.”

Lydia hesitated. The flip-flops on her feet suddenly felt lighter, like they were pushing her toward something she wasn’t ready for, something she wasn’t even sure she wanted. But then she stood, heart pounding in her chest. Her legs carried her toward him before her mind could catch up.

The closer she got, the louder her flip-flops seemed to echo in the quiet of the café. She could feel her palms sweating, her pulse quickening, but she didn’t stop. When she reached his table, he looked up at her, those hazel eyes crinkling at the edges, warm and curious.

“Hi,” she said, surprised at how steady her voice was. “I… I noticed your flip-flops. They look like they’ve seen better days.”

He chuckled, glancing down at his feet. “Yeah, they’ve been through a lot. Guess I’m attached to them.”

“I know the feeling.” Lydia glanced down at her own flip-flops, the familiar leather pressing against her toes. It felt like a small, private joke between them — two people holding onto something worn but comforting.

“I’m David, by the way,” he said, offering her a hand.

“Lydia.” She took it, feeling the warmth of his skin against hers, the simple, solid pressure of his grip. She couldn’t help but notice the way her hand lingered in his for a beat longer than necessary.

“Care to join me?” He gestured to the chair across from him, and before she could overthink it, she sat.

Their conversation started slowly, with the usual small talk — how hot it was, how the summers here seemed endless. But as they spoke, something else slipped in. He told her about his teenage daughter, how he’d recently moved back to the area after a long stint abroad. There was a weariness to his voice, a kind of restlessness she recognized in herself.

Lydia found herself opening up more than she expected. She talked about her son, how she felt like he was slipping away from her, how lonely it had been since her husband passed. It was easy to talk to David, easier than she expected. There was no pity in his eyes, just understanding.

At some point, the air between them shifted. He leaned in slightly, his gaze flicking to her lips, just for a moment. Lydia’s pulse quickened. For a second, she imagined what it would feel like to close the space between them, to kiss him, to let herself want something again.

But then she pulled back. She couldn’t. Not today. Not like this.

“I should get back to my friend,” she said, the words heavy in her throat.

David’s eyes lingered on hers for a moment longer, but he didn’t push. “It was nice meeting you, Lydia.”

As she stood, her flip-flops slapped against the floor again, a sharp reminder of the weight she carried. She walked back to Julie, her heart still racing, her mind spinning with the possibilities of what hadn’t happened.

Julie raised an eyebrow. “Well?”

Lydia smiled, but it was bittersweet. “Maybe I need new flip-flops.”

She looked back at David one last time, and for the briefest moment, she let herself imagine a different version of this day — one where she had leaned in, where she had let herself be someone else, just for a moment.

But that wasn’t her. Not yet.

Final Assessment

I think Curtis Sittenfeld’s career is still safe. Running the story through the prompts I provided improved it, but there are still a lot of yawns and cringes in the story. (“Lydia had been practical for so long” is such an awkward way to start the story. Show, don’t tell.) But I felt it was at least “readable.”

What do you think? Did this iterative process help? Will AI ever be able to write like Curtis Sittenfeld?