Death is Eternal #349
Sunday. May 21, 2023. 3,608 words.
This Death is Eternal will be longer than usual because I’ll try something different. Why will I do that? To prove a point. And to write about that. It’s a vicious circle. I’ll write more to then write more about writing more. To anyone who doubts I love to write, what do you say now? Why am I being that aggressive? No idea; it just happened. I’m sorry. Let’s move forward before things get too much out of hand.
Contents
Tarabya of Pegu (intro)
Tarabya of Pegu
Tarabya of Pegu (more literary)
Tarabya of Pegu (more poetic)
Writing: ChatGPT
Bye!
Abbotsford
Last week (May 15 to 21, 2023)
This week (May 22 to 28, 2023)
Death is Eternal review #205: Jerry Seinfeld: 23 Hours to Kill
Death is Eternal review #206: Stillwater by Chip Zdarsky, Ramón Pérez, and Mike Spicer
The end
1. Tarabya of Pegu (intro)
Project my hiStory had some cool stuff beyond giving me something to write, especially the second phase of it. For instance, I’d never heard and probably would never hear about Tarabya of Pegu. But thanks to the project, not only I heard, I researched and wrote about it. This kind of realization makes me want to revisit it... Maybe one day, when I have the time. Enjoy reading this first draft!
2. Tarabya of Pegu
“I saved you from Yazathingyan of Mekkhaya and Thihathu of Pinle,” shouted Wareru. “When my army and I arrived from Martaban, Pegu was under siege, and the people were starving.”
“This doesn’t give you the right to rule over me; we are allies! Allies!” Tarabya shouted even louder.
The armies of Pegu and Martaban looked at each other from a distance; they knew it was nothing more than a pissing contest, but they were willing to die for it.
The soldiers knew they didn’t have a choice in the matter. Better be ready than flee and be captured and labelled as a coward later.
“I’m not trying to rule over you!” Wareru was offended; Tarabya was a faithful ally. Both were married to each other’s daughters.
“You want to control the Irrawaddy Delta all by yourself!”
“I won--”
Tarabya didn’t let the former ally finish the sentence, “We won!”
“Okay, okay, I guess peace is out of the table. Do you want to go to war or...” the peacemaker, the man responsible for overseeing the peace negotiations, didn’t finish the sentence on purpose.
“Or!” Both Tarabya and Wareru agreed for the first time in a long time.
“So be it. Go and get ready; we’ll start in 20 minutes.”
Tarabya left the centre of the field and went to his army. Everyone heard the discussion, so his assistants had already begun the preparation.
The strongman, the King of Pegu, oversaw the equipment. First, the long weapon. It was sharp. The tip could penetrate a tree, while the rest of the blade would easily cut the wood.
Then, he looked at the elephant. They have been together for a long time now. They had seen many battles. When he was on top, during the heat of the fight, Tarabya felt invincible.
With the help of his servants, Tarabya climbed his elephant. From the top, he looked to the other side. Wareru was ready.
Their eyes met. Both asked, with the other wanting to give up; the answer came simultaneously, with the elephants starting to run in the other’s direction.
The joust began.
The joust ended.
Tarabya was on the ground as his elephant. He was lucky to be alive; if the animal had fallen over him, he would be dead.
Wareru looked from the top, “You are both lucky; neither of you died. The monks asked me not to kill you. I also don’t want to see my daughter grieving. That’s why I’ll let you live. But I hope you learned your lesson.”
Tarabya’s elephant was already up; the animal looked lost. It was his first defeat.
The guards raised Tarabya from the ground. Silently, he promised he would have his revenge. And maybe, if he hadn’t married the daughter of his enemy, he would be good to his promise.
The end
2.1 Tarabya of Pegu (more literary)
“I saved you from the clutches of Yazathingyan of Mekkhaya and Thihathu of Pinle,” Wareru’s voice boomed across the field. “When my army and I rode forth from Martaban, Pegu lay besieged, its people on the verge of starvation.”
Tarabya’s retort was a vehement cry, echoing even louder through the air. “This does not grant you the right to lord over me; we are meant to be allies! Allies!” His words, filled with passion, hung heavy in the air.
The armies of Pegu and Martaban stood in opposing ranks, their gazes locked in a battle of pride and honour. Though they knew it was naught but a contest of egos, they were prepared to lay down their lives for the cause.
The soldiers, aware they had no choice in the matter, braced themselves. Better to be prepared than to flee and be branded as cowards in the annals of history.
“I have no intentions of ruling over you!” Wareru’s indignation was palpable; Tarabya was a loyal comrade. They were even bound by the sacred bond of marriage, each having wed the other’s daughter.
“You seek to wield sole control over the vast expanse of the Irrawaddy Delta!”
“I have--”
But Tarabya did not allow his former ally to finish his sentence. “We have won!”
“Very well, peace is no longer an option, it seems. Shall we resort to war or...” The mediator, tasked with overseeing the negotiations, deliberately left the sentence unfinished.
“Or!” Tarabya and Wareru found rare accord at that moment.
“Let it be so. Prepare yourselves; we shall commence in twenty minutes.”
Tarabya departed from the centre of the field, making his way toward his army. The discussion had been overheard, and his aides were already setting the wheels in motion.
The regal figure of Tarabya, the King of Pegu, surveyed the preparations. First and foremost, the long weapon commanded his attention. Its blade was honed to a lethal point, capable of piercing through the heartwood of a tree with ease.
Next, his gaze fell upon the elephant. They had been inseparable for years, having borne witness to countless battles. When Tarabya stood upon its mighty back, engulfed in the heat of combat, he felt invincible.
With the assistance of his attendants, Tarabya mounted the elephant. From his elevated vantage point, he cast his gaze toward the opposing side. Wareru was ready.
Their eyes locked, silently questioning whether the other was willing to yield. The answer came simultaneously, conveyed through the thunderous motion of the charging elephants as they veered toward one another.
The joust began.
The joust concluded.
Tarabya found himself lying on the ground, much like his fallen elephant. Luck had favoured him; had the massive creature collapsed upon him, his life would have been snuffed out in an instant.
Wareru, peering down from above, spoke with a measured tone. “Consider yourselves fortunate, both of you. The monks beseeched me not to take your lives. Furthermore, I have no desire to witness my daughter’s grief. Thus, I shall spare you. But may this serve as a valuable lesson.”
Tarabya’s elephant had already risen, appearing disoriented. It was their first taste of defeat.
The guards hoisted Tarabya to his feet. In that silent moment, he swore vengeance upon his adversary. And perhaps, had he not been bound by the ties of matrimony to his enemy’s daughter, he would have been true to his word.
The end
2.2 Tarabya of Pegu (more poetic)
“I rescued you from the clutches of Yazathingyan of Mekkhaya and Thihathu of Pinle,” Wareru proclaimed, his voice resounding like a battle cry. “When my army and I arrived from Martaban, Pegu languished under siege, its people withering away in starvation’s cruel embrace.”
Tarabya’s voice pierced the air, a torrent of defiance. “This does not grant you the sovereign right over me; we are bound as allies! Allies!” His words echoed louder, a testament to his unwavering spirit.
The armies of Pegu and Martaban stood divided, their gazes locked in a dance of confrontation. It was a contest of ego, a confrontation they were willing to sacrifice everything for.
The soldiers knew naught, but surrender was not an option. Better to stand firm, ready to face the consequences of flight, than be branded a craven, captured and shamed.
“I do not seek dominion over you!” Wareru’s words carried a sting of offence; Tarabya, a loyal comrade, had forgotten their kinship. The two were bound by a sacred vow wed to each other’s daughters.
“You crave the mastery of the Irrawaddy Delta for yourself!”
“I have emerged victorious--”
Tarabya seized the former ally’s words, refusing to grant them completion. “We have triumphed!”
“Very well, then. If peace eludes us,” the mediator, tasked with overseeing the talks, let his words trail off intentionally.
“Or!” Tarabya and Wareru concurred, a rare moment of accord amidst a tempestuous past.
“Be it so. Prepare yourselves; the hour of reckoning approaches, a mere twenty heartbeats away.”
Tarabya withdrew from the heart of the field, striding toward his army. The discussion reverberated in their ears, spurring his attendants into action and hastening the preparations.
The stalwart king, overseeing the arsenal, surveyed the weapons. A long, gleaming implement caught his eye. Its keen edge could sunder the mightiest of trees while its blade effortlessly cleaved through the wood.
Next, his gaze fell upon the elephant, their enduring companion through countless battles. The bond between man and beast had weathered the tempests of conflict. When Tarabya sat astride the colossal creature amidst the fervour of combat, he felt invincible.
Assisted by his attendants, Tarabya ascended the regal beast. From his lofty vantage point, he cast his gaze across the expanse. Wareru stood poised, an equal in resolve.
Their eyes met, an unspoken question hanging in the air, each contemplating surrender. And as if guided by a shared understanding, the elephants surged forward, hurtling towards their opposing destinies.
The joust commenced.
The joust concluded.
Tarabya found himself sprawled on the ground, and his elephant fell. Fortune smiled upon him, for had the mighty beast toppled upon him, death would have claimed him in its embrace.
Wareru surveyed the scene from his elevated perch. “Fortunate are you both, for the monks beseeched me to spare your lives. I, too, would spare my daughter the anguish of grief. Thus, I grant you a reprieve. Yet, I trust you have gleaned wisdom from this ordeal.”
Tarabya’s elephant regained its footing; its gaze clouded with bewilderment. This marked the first time the indomitable king had tasted defeat.
Guards lifted Tarabya from the ground, his lips sealed in a solemn vow. In silence, he pledged vengeance, a promise he would fulfill. And perhaps, were it not for the bond forged by marriage to his foe’s daughter, he would have been true to his word.
The end
3. Writing: ChatGPT
I have been using ChatGPT to write things I don’t want to write but need to for quite some time now. And every time, the tool amazes me with its capacity to compose sentences while saving me precious minutes. But I had never tried to use the AI as a creative tool. Well, at least, not until now.
Item 2 is what I wrote, while item 2.1 was ChatGPT rewriting following the prompt: “Make it more literary, between 500 and 600 words.” Item 2.2 was: “Writing in prose style, make the following more poetic, between 500 and 600 words.” (Side note: it was hard getting to the place I wanted to get with 2.2 because the AI ties “poetic” with “line breaks,” but that’s not what I wanted. Finding an instruction that made it rewrite more poetically but without breaking lines was challenging.)
The results are impressive and confusing. Now, before moving forward, I must say I’m as biased as they come because, and I said this before, I do think I’m better than any AI out there... currently. I’m also biased because I’m comparing my creative writing, something I have done for a long time, and I pride myself on being more than great. However, I must say, in all objective categories, ChatGPT did a better job than I did it.
But that doesn’t mean its pieces are better than mine.
And that’s why the results are impressive but confusing.
It’s impressive because the AI showed an impressive command of the English language. In 30 seconds, it came with words I had never heard or read before. It can create more literary and poetic creative writing than I can. It’s perfect, too perfect. And that’s the problem.
No matter whom you read or how great the writer is, no one is that perfect. A sentence, paragraph, page, or even chapter won’t sound that good. And that’s where greatness stands. Greatness lies in mistakes. “Mistakes.” When you’re writing, you know what really matters to the story and what it’s not that important. There are scenes, dialogues, and descriptions that the reader can’t miss or they’ll not understand the story, while others are there to give some flavour but aren’t strictly necessary for the plot. The writer knows that, so it gives everything they have to what matters while not showing the same care for the rest. And that’s what makes the great stuff shine! They are great and would shine regardless, but having something not that great elevates what’s incredible. But when everything is excellent, nothing is great.
That’s the problem with what the AI wrote.
Everything it’s too literary or too poetic. There are no breaks for the brain and no mistakes to make fantastic writing shine. The bar is up there the whole time. Once you get used to it, everything sounds not as great as they are.
AI can do a fantastic job at writing creative stuff. But because it doesn’t think, doesn’t have a heart, and doesn’t get involved with the story, it doesn’t allow itself to be imperfect. It doesn’t know what matters and what doesn’t. AI’s perfection makes the writing imperfect, while human imperfection makes the writing perfect.
That experiment helped me with my writing. I always knew perfection was impossible and that “done is better than perfect.” But now, I see I’d make my writing worse if I achieved perfection. A story needs mistakes, need the not-so-good parts to be remarkable.
Interesting!
Thanks, ChatGPT.
PS: I almost put 2.1 and 2.2 behind the paywall to make people curious and, maybe, make you become a paying subscriber. But in the end, I thought that making it open to all it’s better because I want people to engage in the conversation. And not creating walls is the best way of having people engaging. So, please, engage. Otherwise, I’ll feel like a fool! And I, shockingly, don’t want to feel like a fool!
4. Bye!
Here’s where we say our farewell to the free subscribers. If you want to read the rest of Death is Eternal, consider becoming a paying subscriber. If you already are a paying subscriber, first of all, thank you very, very much! And second, I’ll see you on the other side of the paywall.
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to ... by GIC to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.