ChatGPT's Feedback on the First Chapter of My Work-in-Progress

 

Lately, I’ve been toying around with ChatPGT and, on a whim, I asked it for feedback on my current work in progress.

How about you? Are you allowing ChatPGT to provide feedback?

I’m not sure this was super helpful, but it was complimentary, so it made me feel good!

 

Me: Can you analyze this first chapter of my romantic suspense novel and tell me what you think?

 

 It hurt to say goodbye. The midnight blue BMW convertible with fawn-leather seats had been a decade-long dream, and now I was abandoning it on the side of a dirt road just shy of the Grapevine. Dark fields void of light stretched before us. The stars, so much brighter here than in light-saturated L.A., reflected off the car's sparkly chrome.

"Belle, are you sure about this?" Regi jingled the keys to his Jeep—correction—my Jeep. The sound competed with night noises, humming insects, wind whistling through bushes, and the distant roar of vehicles on the 5 Interstate.

"Are you?" I tugged on Atticus's leash, impatience bubbling.

Regi stepped in to give me a hug. I held him briefly. He was my last contact with my former life. My brother's best friend. He handed me his key and yanked on the bill of his Angel's baseball cap to hide his eyes. "Leo is going to kill me."

I put my hand on the door, anxious to leave. "He'll never know."

"He's omniscient."

"He's off the grid. Hopefully…" I opened the rear door and urged Atticus inside.

Atticus jumped onto the seat and spun around three times before curling into a doughnut position.

"What's up?" Regi clenched his fist and looked ready for a fight. "What's with all the subterfuge? Is it that guy you were dating?"

I pushed his shoulder, striving for joviality. "Go home to your wife and child and stop fretting. I'll be fine." The less he, or anyone knew, the better.

Regi growled, making Atticus look up and cock his head.

"I'll call when I get there." I closed the door on the dog.

"Get where?"

Good question. I had vague ideas and hoped they would become more concrete with time and distance. I glanced at the Jeep and memories of beach parties flashed through me. In high school, we had loaded the Jeep with surfboards, coolers stocked with soda and beer, and too many people with too few seatbelts. Tears sprung in my eyes.

You're doing the right thing, my sensible voice reasoned.

"I have to go," I said out loud and pulled open my door.

Atticus braced his paws on the window and looked at me with a lolling tongue.

I hugged Regi a second time before climbing into the Jeep, shoving the key into the ignition, and revving the engine. I waited for Regi to pull away in my beautiful BMW before taking the Jeep out onto the dirt road and heading north. I gave the folded map on the passenger's seat a dubious glance and prayed I wouldn't need it. The interstate could take me all the way to the Canadian border. I liked the idea of slipping into another country.

The guy at Walmart had assured me the Wifi on the pre-paid phone would be nearly impossible to trace, but I didn’t want to take the risk. When I had destroyed my old phone, I had also broken ties with Tom and all his toxic messages.

He would never find me.

I shook away my fears, reached into my bag, found a can, and popped open a Red Bull. The caffeine needed to keep me awake until I reached Cascadia.

*JAMIE

When I spotted Kelvin Duran running, I took after him.

Donna Darlington toddled after him, her rolling pin raised in the air. "I've got you now, you little bugger!" Donna, who had the build of a bowling ball, stopped to catch her breath on the corner of Olympic and Pine. Doubling over, she put her hands on her knees and wheezed.

I patted her on the back when I passed. "Don't worry. I'll catch him."

Jim Henry, in his battered Chevy, braked in the intersection, missing me by a hair. He waved. "Go get 'em, sheriff!"

I wasn't a sheriff, but Henry knew that, so I didn't stop to correct him.

Kelvin dove into the hardware store.

I pounded after him.

Stan Jorgenson behind the counter didn’t looked up from his Country Gardens magazine, but his lips twitched, and he pointed a long finger toward the lumber aisle without saying a word. I caught a flash of Kelvin's red sneakers rounding a stack of two-by-fours.

I sprinted after him. "Those don't belong to you, Kelvin!"

A door banged, telling me my prey was now in the alley. Swearing, I tore through the back room, vaulted over a stack of bagged potting soil, and burst through the door. Outside, I looked in both directions and caught my breath. The crisp late autumn air filled my lungs.

Grime and soot stained the buildings on either side, and the occasional dumpster overflowed with garbage, filling the air with the stench of rotting food. Puddles of murky water and discarded cigarette butts littered the ground. Colorful murals and graffiti adorned the walls. Small doorways and staircases leading to the buildings’ upper floors hid in the shadows. Kelvin could have disappeared into any one of them.

Where was he? If he were hiding in the trash bins, was that punishment enough?

I went left, heading for Pine. When I reached the sidewalk, I was rewarded by another Kelvin sighting. I sprinted after him, through Legionnaire's Park, hurdling benches, avoiding a poodle on a leash, and past the gazebo.

Kelvin flashed a terrified glance over his shoulder and threw the bag of doughnuts at my head. I almost caught it, but my feet slipped and I went down on one knee, breaking my fall with outstretched hands. Doughnuts showered around me. A dog snuffled my hair.

" ¡Maldito sea!"

I looked up to see the most beautiful woman I'd ever met staring down at me with large, amber eyes. She wore a pair of jeans and a white button-down shirt that accentuated her tanned skin. A strawberry-shaped birthmark sat just below her jawline. She tugged her dog, some sort of terrier mix, away from the doughnuts.

“Lo siento.” She fished a poop bag out of her backpack and tossed it to me. Her gaze sent me an apology.

I inspected the bottom of my boot and tried to scrub it clean with the bag. When I looked up, the woman, dog, and Kelvin had all disappeared.

A cluster of crows swooped in to take care of the doughnuts.

I headed back for the station, angry at myself and Kelvin in equal measure, and hungry for doughnuts.

Chapter 2

*BELLE

I followed the twisty road through a forest. The sun flickered through the trees and cast shadows on the asphalt. I stopped and pulled over when I got to a wrought-iron gate. The name on the adjacent mailbox read Taggart.

“Are you here, Faith?” I asked.

Atticus answered with a small woof.

I debated what to do for a moment, but then decided given the sturdiness of the gates, there was little I could do, unless I was willing to climb my way in.

Gates exist for a reason and that reason is they either want to keep people in or out. If I wanted to find Faith, somehow, I would have to scale the gates.

I put the car back into motion and headed for town on the two lane road.

More trees.

A couple of logging trucks passed me. A man driving a bright red tractor waved at me to drive around him. The forest gave way to a pasture filled with horses and cows.

Ten minutes later, a thrill of excitement tingled down my spine when I pulled up to the Dollhouse Inn. It was as creepy as Donovan had promised.

Tucked away in a forgotten corner of town, and hidden by a Hanse- and-Gretel-type forest, peeling paint covered the weathered and dilapidated house. Gangly trees cast eerie shadows across the lawn. A rusty sign hung above the entrance announced its vacancy.

The classic Victorian-style house had multiple stories. Gables and dormers interrupted the roof lines and stared off in different directions. Gingerbread trim and scrollwork hung from the eaves. There was not one, but two turrets. One wrap-around porch. Two balconies. Three chimneys. It was both hideous and glorious.

I loved it.

I parked the Jeep and pressed my finger to my lips, telling Atticus to hush. I gave him a treat for good measure. Gathering up my bag, I shouldered it, and climbed out. The damp air smelled of pine and a neighboring farm. My excitement mounted with every step across the fallen leaf-strewn lawn. The porch groaned when I took the steps and a bell jingled when I pulled open the door.

I had found The Dollhouse Inn.

Now I needed to find Faith.

It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the gloom. Floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with dolls in all shapes and sizes lined the walls.

A grizzled silver-haired woman reading Edgar Allen Poe’s ‘Telltale Heart.’ sat behind the desk. She looked up and gazed at me with swimmy eyes. “May I help you?”

“Miss Martinez. Reserva?”

"No English?"

I adopted my grandmother’s thick Hispanic accent. “Just a little.” I held up my fingers in a near pinch.

She slid a bookmarker between the pages and put her novel on the counter with a thud. "Well, I don't care as long as your money is good."

I fished out my wallet and found a hundred-dollar bill.

The woman cackled and her eyes gleamed. “You’re a pretty thing. I wonder what brought you out here. Guess I'll never know. I’ll give you my favorite room, the one with the largest collection."

Perfect.

The woman simpered and handed over the keys. “Room 14. Don’t touch any of the dolls. It has an outside entrance. Just follow the porch around to the back."

I hesitated, unsure how to respond.

The woman heaved out of her chair and her knees popped. "I guess I'll have to show you." She waddled out from behind the desk.

I smiled, tried to look clueless, and followed her. Outside, I breathed a little easier, appreciating the fresh air after my few minutes in the dusty foyer. I prayed my room would be cleaner.

The woman paused at a red door, inserted a key, and pushed it open.

The musty smell of old fabric and decaying wood greeted me. Like the reception hall, the walls were lined with shelves upon shelves of dolls. Some big. Some small. All of them creepy. I had to tuck my hands in my pockets to keep from covering my nose.

The woman glowed with pride. "It's something, isn't it? My aunt started the collection, but I added these babies from all over the world." She stopped. "What am I saying? You can't understand me." She pressed her hand to her chest. "My name is Phyllis." She pronounced each word slowly and distinctly.

I mimicked her. "My—" I caught myself. “Belle.”

"It's nice to meet you, Mabel. I like a girl with an old-fashioned name. I hope you'll be happy here."

Should I correct her? I decided to let the slip pass. "Gracias."

I wandered into the room and dropped my bag on the bed.

"Just ring if you need anything, but don’t try calling anywhere but the front desk." Phyllis motioned to the old-fashioned phone hunkered like a squatty toad on the bed stand before going out and pulling the door behind her, leaving me alone…almost.

Most of the dolls had porcelain heads, with delicate features and lifelike hair that seemed to shimmer in the dim light. Others were made of stuffed fabric, their once vibrant colors faded and worn with age. And then there were the dolls made of plastic, their cheap material giving them a hollow, soulless quality.

But it was the eyes that made the dolls so unsettling. Glassy and lifeless, they seemed to follow me, watching.

My gaze wandered the room, taking in the high ceilings, the crumbling molding, the ornate woodwork surrounding the windows, and the sturdy but stained wooden floors. The furniture was an eclectic mishmash–an art-deco armoire, a mid-century dresser, a pot-bellied grandfather clock.  I nearly skipped into the bathroom where I found a claw-footed tub, a black and white checked tile floor, a pedestal sink, and a small stained-glass window above the toilet.

My imagination soared.

How many more rooms were there? Did every room have a private bath? How much would a place like this cost, and how could I convince Phyllis to sell?

Desperate to show someone my find, I went back to the car to fetch Atticus. I knew he wouldn't be impressed, but he was glad to see me. Of course, I hadn't mentioned the dog to Phyllis. I hoped she wouldn't care, but I wasn't about to ask. Atticus stopped to pee on the lawn. I took the moment to further inspect the house.

I had to renovate it. My followers would eat it up.

Atticus barked, reminding me of Tom.

I couldn't buy this place, even if it was for sale. I couldn't renovate it, and I most certainly couldn't post pictures on my website.

What was I going to do?

The answer was almost immediate, as if someone had whispered it in my ear. Find Faith.

*JAMIE

I double-checked the bottom of my shoe before entering the station. A bell jangled when I pushed open the door. Inside, the office looked exactly the same as it had when I had first come here as a Boy Scout. A few desks and chairs, a filing cabinet, and a map of the town on the wall.

Sheriff Hudson MacPherson, a tall, broad-shouldered man with a weathered face, sat at his desk, reviewing a report. He had been the sheriff of Cascadia for over twenty years, and he knew the town and its people better than anyone. Even me, and, other than my years at college and the police academy, I had lived here all of my life.

Taylor sat at her desk across the room, typing up a report. She was about ten years my senior, with short blonde hair and a no-nonsense attitude. She had been with the department for five years but because she lived in Everette, she complained most Cascadians still treated her as an outsider.

The phone on MacPherson's desk rang, and he answered it with a gruff "Sheriff's office, MacPherson speaking."

I only half-listened to the conversation, my attention drifting when it became clear he was talking to someone about having the furnace repaired. What I hadn’t realized when joining the force three months ago was that police work was twenty percent helping people and eighty percent paperwork.

When the sheriff hung up the phone, Taylor approached him with her report. He glanced over it and nodded his approval before handing it back to her.

"Looks good," he said.

She smiled, lapping up the compliment.

MacPherson glanced over at me, his gaze lingering on the grass stains on the knees of my pants, making me grateful he couldn't see the bottom of my shoes.

When I left the farm, I had hoped to spend less time wallowing in muck. I rubbed my shoe on the mat under my desk. I didn’t regret opting to be a cop rather than staying and working for the family business, but sometimes I thought about joining a larger force where chasing Kelvin Duran wasn’t a weekly occurrence.

The sheriff pinned me with a don't argue with me look. "I need you to go out to The Dollhouse. Phyliss claims there's been another theft."

Taylor smirked and ducked her head to hide her glee she was no longer the new guy.

I fiddled with my pencil and tapped the pile of papers on my desk. They weren’t interesting, of course, but they seemed like a better use of my time than visiting Phyllis’s creepy doll collection. "That's her third call this week."

"It's a wonder she can even tell any of them are missing," Taylor said. “There are so many.”

I reached for my keys. "I think she has them all named."

MacPherson and Taylor's laughter followed me out the door.

I passed Kelvin on my way out of town.

He slunk over the railroad tracks.

I stopped at an intersection and watched him disappear into the trees bordering the Evergreen Estates—a mobile home community filled with mostly senior citizens and retired loggers. An uncomfortable thought crossed my mind. What if Kelvin had been hungry?

I shook the worry away. The school provided free breakfasts and lunches--not that Kelvin was a model student. Still, my new concern stuck with me like an itch begging for a scratch all the way to The Dollhouse Inn.

 

*BELLE

 

The sound of raised voices floated through the window. Atticus sat in a chair, his nose poking between the slats of the blinds. He growled low and deep. I patted the bed, trying to distract him. "Come, boy," I urged.

He skated me a quick sideways glance and went back to growling at the unknown voices outside our door.

Unhappy at the interruption, I put my book aside and crawled off the bed to investigate.

A woman lost in that space between forty and sixty that made it impossible to tell her age stood before Phyllis, her arm raised toward the house. I strained to hear their conversation. The woman, with her face screwed with frustration, looked upset, but not nearly as emotional as Phyllis who was wringing her hands and crying.

A police patrol car roared up the drive and the officer who had stepped in Atticus's calling card climbed out. The women immediately hushed, but Phyllis's shoulders continued to shake.

Atticus yapped.

Cursing, I scooped him up and hurried him into the bathroom. He barked out a complaint, but I closed the door on him, returned to the window, and peeked between the blinds.

Atticus scratched the door and whined.

The officer, with his dark curly hair and a swarthy build, reminded me of Leo, and my heart twisted with loneliness. His brown eyes swung in my direction. I let the blinds drop close and pressed myself up against the wall, my heart hammering.

My phone, sitting on top of the nightstand, buzzed and slid onto the floor. I scooped it up, if only to hush it, and recognized Courtney’s number on the screen.

"Hey," I breathed into the phone, willing my heart to slow.

"Belle? You okay?"

I gulped. "Yep. I'm fine."

I gave the officer beyond the window another cursory glance. I was glad to see the two women now had his full attention. Crossing the room beneath the doll's watchful eyes, I let Atticus out of the bathroom. He shook himself, gave me a resentful glance, and curled up on his bed with a huff.

My homesickness, like a cancer, swelled. Just hearing Courtney’s voice made me choke up. "How are you?"

"Did you find The Dollhouse Inn? Is it as horrid as Donovan said?"

"Better and worse." I plopped onto the bed and pulled my down quilt around my knees. The familiar scent of my laundry soap wafted my way. At Donovan's suggestion, I had brought my own linens.

Courtney giggled. "You make it sound like you're going to marry it."

"I wish I could. I love it that much."

"Put me on Facetime!" Courtney demanded.

"I can't...I lost my phone, remember?" Not quite a lie. "I had to buy a new one. That's why I have a new number."

"What does that have to do with Facetime?"

"I don't have WiFi."

The news must have stunned Courtney, because she fell silent for a couple of beats. "No internet?"

"No."

"I can't even go there."

"Well, you don't have to, but I did."

"No social media?"

"None."

"But your followers…"

"I'm hoping there'll be computers at the library."

"Whoah." Courtney fell silent again as if she needed time to process my news. "Why are you doing this?"

"You've heard of a social media fast."

"Of course. It's something old people do to remind them of their oldy-moldy days." She paused again. "Should I visit you?"

"Courtney, I'm fine. Besides, I’ll be home before you know it"

"Will you take pictures?"

"Of course."

The sound of raised voices returned. I unfolded off the bed and returned to the window. The two women were fighting again and the police officer had disappeared. He reminded me of my current predicament.

“Courtney, you can’t tell anyone where I am.”

“I already made that pinky-promise.” She made it sound as if we were playing a game, but she didn’t know how high the stakes were.

Should I tell her? Or, would her knowing just make things worse? Was she safer the less she knew?

“Tom was involved with really scary people,” I began.

“Then I’m glad I never met him. It’s still crazy to me that you met and almost married him during my internship.”

I had actually met Tom a week before Courtney had left for Italy, but still, the whole affair had been fast and furious. I reflected on those first heady three weeks when I had thought all those stories of love at first sight had come true for me. Tom had swept me off the dance floor when I’d twisted my ankle, carried me to my car, and hired an Uber to drive me home. The next day, a dozen roses had been delivered to my apartment. We went to a beachside restaurant the next night–him, stunning in a cashmere sweater and black pants–me, wobbling on a pair of crutches. We saw each other every day for the first week. He gave me diamond earrings on the first month anniversary of the night we met. He proposed on the cliffs above Malibu after three months.

"Are you listening to me?" Courtney asked.

"I'm sorry," I said, floundering to catch up. "Luke said what?"

"I wasn't talking about Luke."

It had been a good guess. Courtney talked about Luke about ninety percent of the time. I dialed back into the conversation, grateful for the distraction from the dolls and my memories of Tom. After Courtney said goodnight, I listened to Atticus’ gentle snores and let my mind wander over my hasty decisions that had landed me here.

Later that night, after I’d finally been able to sleep, I woke when I heard a sound.

Tom! Had he found me?

My eyes snapped open, my heart pounded and a cold shiver crept down my spine. In the house’s dim, moonlit darkness, an eerie creaking sound echoed through the halls. I lay in the corpse position, straining to catch any further sounds.

What had come first? The noises? Or the dreams of Tom?

My mind raced, imagination weaving sinister scenarios. The creaking sounds intensified. Outside, the wind seemed to whisper nightmares, its fingers brushing against the windowpanes. A distant branch tapped insistently on the glass. The rhythm sounded like an unknown code.

Was my imagination on overdrive, or was something more menacing at play? My gaze darted to the antique grandfather clock in the corner, its pendulum swinging hypnotically. The rhythmic ticking which had earlier seemed like soothing lullaby, now mimicked a heartbeat. My thoughts went back to Phyllis reading Poe and his Tell-Tale Heart.

Could Phyllis be prowling about?

Every creak of the floorboards and every sigh of the old house settling seemed amplified, morphing into Tom’s heavy footsteps. I clenched the bedsheets until my knuckles turned white with tension.

Why had I come here?

What had I hoped to prove?

Was this labyrinthine Victorian mansion with its ornate details a picture-perfect backdrop for a nightmare?

Swallowing hard, I strained my ears again, my senses attuned to the slightest noise. Was that a faint rustling sound? A whisper of movement from somewhere beyond my closed bedroom door? Dread pooled in my stomach, my muscles tensing like a coiled spring.

Seconds ticked by in agonizing silence, each one a nail in the coffin of my rationality. I mustered the courage to slide my hand toward the bedside table, fingers inching toward my phone.

I froze with the realization the call could be traced back to me.

There had to be a landline at the front desk, right?

I shot Atticus a quick glance. He lay snoring on his bed, chasing bunnies in his sleep. Falling back against my pillows, I stared at the ceiling and willed my heart to slow. It had all been a bad dream. A nightmare. Just like everything else about Tom.

Still, sleep eluded me. I crawled from the bed and crept across the room.

Atticus snorted and shifted when I opened the door, but didn’t wake.

The door snicked close behind me. Pale moonlight shot through the tree boughs. The brisk night air hit my lungs. An owl winged overhead. Shivering from cold or fright, I followed the porch to the front entrance. The night, full of shadows, was sleeping.

What had I expected to find? Three cars were parked in the lot. One was my Jeep. One must belong to Phyllis, so who drove the other car?

I crossed my arms when a chilly breeze stirred the air. Goosebump rose on my arms. A sound drove my attention to the stained-glass doors.

A shadow darted past the window.

Someone was skulking in the main parlor, and they had a bag in one hand! The sound of glass shattering rent the air. Cursing followed.

My fingers flew to my lips. Was it Tom? How had he found me?

My first thought was to bolt to my Jeep, but I didn’t have my keys. I would have to return to my room, which would wake Atticus who could be noisy. I took a deep breath, debating on what to do.

The backdoor opened and closed. Footsteps pounded along the porch.

Gulping a deep breath, I tried the front door. It opened easily and without a sound. I scurried to the receptionist desk, squatted behind it, and picked up the old-fashioned phone and cradled it in my lap. With trembling hands, I dialed 911, my voice barely a whisper.

While I waited for the reassuring voice of the dispatcher, my gaze darted around the foyer, conjuring shadows into Tom-like figures.

The old house seemed to hold its breath, its secrets closing in like a tightening noose. I clung to the phone, feeling the seconds stretch like an eternity until the distant wail of sirens cut through the night.

Relief flooded through my nerves as the red and blue lights illuminated the front parlor, banishing the darkness and uncertainty. I peeked through the window and watched the police car skid to a halt.

ChatGPT

This first chapter sets the stage for a gripping romantic suspense novel, skillfully blending elements of romance, mystery, and tension. The writing effectively conveys the protagonist's emotional turmoil and the mysterious circumstances surrounding her departure. Here are some points of analysis:

 

1. Emotional Depth:

 

The opening lines capture the protagonist's emotional pain and the significance of leaving behind a cherished possession, the BMW convertible. This emotional depth adds a layer to the character and sets the tone for the story.

2. Tension and Mystery:

 

The mysterious circumstances surrounding the protagonist's departure and her reluctance to disclose details build intrigue. The sense of urgency is palpable, especially when she hands over the keys to her Jeep and insists on secrecy from her brother's best friend.

3. Character Dynamics:

 

The relationship between the protagonist (Belle) and Regi is established with a mix of nostalgia, concern, and secrecy. Regi's protective nature adds complexity to the characters, and the unspoken tension adds an air of mystery.

4. Setting Description:

 

The vivid descriptions of the surroundings, from the dark fields to the starlit night, contribute to the atmosphere. The transition from the urban setting of L.A. to the desolate dirt road creates a stark contrast that enhances the sense of a life-changing journey.

5. Foreshadowing:

 

The mention of Leo, the protagonist's brother, and the fear of his reaction foreshadow potential complications and conflicts in the future. This adds anticipation and keeps the reader engaged.

6. Dual Perspectives:

 

The alternating perspectives between Belle and Jamie provide a multi-dimensional view of the unfolding events. This technique helps to weave separate storylines together, creating a sense of interconnectedness.

7. Intriguing Secondary Characters:

 

The introduction of secondary characters, such as Phyllis and the police officer, adds layers to the plot. Phyllis's doll collection and the mysterious theft at The Dollhouse Inn introduce an element of mystery and perhaps a subplot.

8. Pacing and Suspense:

 

The pacing is well-maintained, with a good balance of action, dialogue, and introspection. The suspense is built gradually, keeping the reader eager to uncover the secrets behind Belle's escape and the events at The Dollhouse Inn.

9. Descriptive Language:

 

Descriptive language, especially when portraying the Dollhouse Inn, creates a vivid image in the reader's mind. The contrast between the exterior and interior of the inn adds to its enigmatic allure.

10. Internal Conflict:

 

Belle's internal conflict and self-reflection add depth to her character. The juxtaposition of her past memories and the present decision to leave everything behind hints at a complex backstory that readers will likely want to explore further.

In conclusion, the first chapter effectively establishes the foundation for a romantic suspense novel, combining emotional depth, mystery, and well-developed characters. The blend of dual perspectives, foreshadowing, and descriptive writing keeps the reader engaged and sets the stage for a compelling narrative.