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A “Nonfiction” Book Written by AI

At 6:30 a.m. Pacific Daylight Time on Sunday, August 20, 2023, when the first tropical storm in many decades was approaching Southern California, I asked Anthropic’s Claude 2 to write a “nonfiction” book based on a few news stories about the approaching storm from newspapers and wire services. The following is the book outline it produced and the first two chapters.

This experiment was inspired by a discussion on Hacker News.

Prompt

The attached file contains news stories from the New York Times, Associated Press, and USA Today about a tropical storm approaching Southern California. I want you to write a narrative nonfiction-style book about this storm told in the past tense. You will base the book on the facts of these news stories and add detail, quotations, and a narrative arc that fit the outline of this event. First, though, please give me a chapter outline of the book.

Claude 2

Here is a proposed chapter outline for a book about the tropical storm approaching Southern California:

Chapter 1: The Calm Before the Storm Chapter 2: Storm Warnings Chapter 3: Preparing for Impact Chapter 4: Hilary Hits Chapter 5: The Aftermath Chapter 6: The New Normal

Prompt

(I then asked it to write Chapters 1 and 2. The results appear below.)

THE FOLLOWING TEXT WAS WRITTEN BY AI.

Claude 2

Chapter 1: The Calm Before the Storm

Under the sweltering July sun, the idling crowd squinted up at the steadily climbing cable cars. As another packed tram reached the pinnacle of the rocky cliff, cheers and waves erupted from those about to take in the famed panoramic views. At over 8,500 feet above Palm Springs, the rotating cars of the Aerial Tramway offered a prime perch for sightseers atop lofty Mount San Jacinto.

“Only one like it in the whole world!” the operator had boasted during their ascent. He regaled riders with tales of Hollywood royalty like Lucy and Desi who dined at the mountain’s historic restaurant while admiring the sweeping valley floor.

Down below, that view showcased the sprawl of whitewashed resorts and emerald golf links over which Palm Springs presided. For decades, generations of tourists making the trip up the Aerial Tramway returned home gushing about the splendid vistas from its mist-shrouded terminus.

On this day, Mike Anderson was one of them. Visiting from his native Minnesota, he had thus far found the Southern California desert every bit as alluring as advertised. Between red rock hikes, art gallery browsing, and poolside cocktails, Mike had reveled in the town’s retro-chic vibe. The reliably perfect weather was a welcome break from the Midwest’s muggy summers.

Checking in for the tram ascent, he made small talk with the operator.

“Hot enough for ya?” Mike joked. At 106 degrees, the day was unusually scorching even by desert standards.

The operator nodded sympathetically. “Hydrate up top, it’s cooler but the air is thin. You’re not in the Midwest anymore!”

As the tram lifted off, dense Sonoran Desert vegetation quickly shrank to scale below. Mike was struck by the unique geology laid suddenly bare, like a living diorama. The valley floor gave way to sheer cliffs and ridges rippling to a distant, hazy horizon. He imagined eagles’ views of the strange, otherworldly formations.

A few fellow sightseers excitedly pointed out landmarks. “There’s the San Andreas Fault!” a teenager exclaimed, tracing the jagged natural seam meandering through the mountain range like a twisted vein.

Up here, Mike realized, the desert was revealed as a place not just of sunbathing and cacti, but ancient clashes of titanic forces. It was humbling to witness the monumental results settled calmly into place.

Nearly three miles high now, Mike stepped from the tram into the cool, pine-scented air. Drifting clouds obscured the crowning ridge. He wandered slowly, acclimating to the altitude. Finally the clouds parted, displaying a heart-stopping panorama.

Shielding his eyes, Mike drank in the vista. To the west, palm oasis communities etched fragile green patches. Mountains cascaded south into Mexico's own vast deserts. The distant shimmer of the Salton Sea beckoned to the east. Behind him, the sheer face of San Jacinto Peak vanished into clouds.

He filled his lungs with the light, crisp air. A rare breeze stirred the pines, evoking alpine forests far from these arid valleys. Gazing across the crumpled ridges rooted eons ago, Mike was certain no Midwest vista could hope to compete.

Far below, the desert still sweltered in the grip of its usual summer – hot, cloudless days fading into balmy, starry nights. At dawn, sprinklers hissed to life, painting country club greens and backyard foliage. Pool cleaners started their rounds while early tee times set off down the fairways.

Another postcard-perfect day unfolded. Weather forecasts called for highs around 110 degrees, with no respite from the building heat wave likely for weeks. Like most locals, Kathy Bell barely glanced at the weather segment on TV as she prepared breakfast.

“Rain? Here?” she chuckled to her husband. “I wish.”

Kathy moved with her husband Rich to Palm Springs five years earlier, fleeing the dreary Ohio winters for snowbird life in the desert. Since retiring, she passed leisurely days on the golf course, volunteering at the art museum, or hosting friends from back home.

She still thrilled at the improbable sensation of sun-warmed skin every January; snow and subzero wind chills seemed a distant bad dream. Though the oven-like summers took adjusting, Kathy happily adopted the slower rhythms of desert living.

Topping off their coffees, she and Rich carried plates to the patio overlooking a fountain burbling near the pool. “Now this is worth giving up snow for,” Rich sighed contentedly.

Halfway through her grapefruit, Kathy’s phone chimed a calendar alert. “Shoot, my museum board meeting is this morning,” she said, gathering her notes. “I better get moving if I want a good parking spot.”

She waved to Rich, heading out to the garage. Like most locals, she kept daytime errands to a minimum in the relentless summer heat. Driving with windows cracked, Kathy noted the weather seemed even more scorching today.

Turning into the museum’s palm tree-lined drive, she hit the button to roll up her windows against the baking air. Inside the gracious courtyard, she exchanged hellos with other board members slowly filtering in. The director arrived briskly, stacks of brochures and schedules tucked under one arm.

“Let’s get started, we have a busy agenda this morning,” she began, launching into grant proposals and upcoming exhibits. As usual, time flew by. The meeting broke up just before noon with smiles and promises to reconnect at the annual fundraiser gala.

Back home, Kathy found Rich dozing by the pool. She slipped off her sandals and eased into the shaded spa, sighing as the bubbling water soothed her tight shoulders.

“Rough morning?” Rich asked sympathetically, passing her a cool lemonade. Reclining with eyes closed, Kathy recounted her day so far and the museum projects in the works.

Lazily floating, her mind drifted from mosaics to hostess gifts. Gradually another thought surfaced. “You know, I never did catch the weather report today,” she remarked. “I should check if it’s cooling down anytime soon before my East Coast family visits.”

Rich agreed and switched on the patio TV. As he scrolled through channels, Kathy caught snippets of rapid-fire warnings between pundits arguing on cable news.

“...Category 3 strength winds...” a weatherman gestured at a satellite map flecked with alarming shades of orange and red. “Residents should prepare for extreme conditions...”

Kathy sat up, suddenly focused. “Wait, go back.” Rich flipped channels until finding a local station. The image returned: an angry tropical spiral bigger than Kathy had ever seen this far north. eddies"

A bold caption read “HURRICANE WATCH issued for Southern California.” The seasoned meteorologist looked uncharacteristically grave recounting the alert just released minutes earlier.

“Folks, this storm grew and organized incredibly quickly. Hurricane Hilary is no longer just a threat to Baja – current models show it tracking directly into Los Angeles and points north.”

Kathy’s stomach dropped. How could a hurricane strike California? This entire coast rarely saw anything worse than scattered showers. What were they supposed to do?

The meteorologist continued, pointing to the projected path dead-ending around Palm Springs.

“Residents need to prepare immediately for this potentially catastrophic scenario. We’re looking at up to 10 inches of rain, winds above hurricane strength, and severe flooding across already extremely arid areas.”

Video cut to sandbags being hastily stacked as people lined up anxiously. The news anchor appeared, eyes grave. “We’ll have continuing live coverage as officials across Southern California mobilize emergency resources. Stay with us through this unfolding crisis.”

Mute with shock, Kathy met Rich’s stunned expression. They both understood instantly that their peaceful slice of paradise lay directly under the gathering storm’s merciless gaze. Nothing in their wildest desert daydreams prepared them to confront the juggernaut churning towards shore.

Word spread rapidly across the valley as phones lit up with calls to loved ones. Incredulous laughter turned rapidly to unease and dismay. Heading home along jammed roads, Mike caught snippets from animated car radios that made little sense – flash flood watch...evacuation plans...catastrophic flooding inundating the desert?

The sun still glared overhead, diffusing the warnings with normalcy. But dread clutched Mike as local stations reported hysteria rising in beach towns from Los Angeles to San Diego. Surely they must be overreacting about a little rain?

Cruising down Gene Autry Trail towards his Airbnb, the Aerial Tramway’s stanchions came into view. Mike gazed up, remembering the peaceful vista from its heights that morning. It seemed impossible that violent storms could invade this serene valley.

Stepping into the cool rental bungalow, Mike flipped on the TV, hungry for explanations. The local news scrolled urgent bulletins as harried reporters assessed meager storm preparations.

Again Mike fought the urge to dismiss it as hype. Yet back home, people always underestimated massive systems barreling across the plains. If Chicago newscasters used words like “catastrophic,” you listened.

Thumbing his phone, he texted the rental owner about the odd weather reports. A reply pinged back instantly: “I’d stock up and stay put next 2 days, going to get ugly! Never seen them close the tram or shelter golf tourneys before...”

Unease swelled in Mike’s gut. He’d landed in the middle of a surreal disaster film, where only he couldn’t see the approaching menace. Stepping onto the patio, a hot breeze ruffled the palms along the wash. Sinister clouds were massing somewhere beyond the western ridges. Mike shivered despite the heat. The desert’s disaster was speeding closer.

Chapter 2: Storm Warnings

“Simply put, this region is facing unprecedented danger that requires residents to take action immediately.”

The National Weather Service spokesman’s grave tone crackled through Mike’s rental bungalow as he watched the special coverage that preempted regular programming. On TV, numerous mirrors of his own stunned expression confirmed no one was ready to believe Southern California was in a hurricane’s crosshairs.

Yet the evidence glared intimidatingly from each station’s radar view. Formerly disorganized thunderstorms had consolidated overnight into Hurricane Hilary, a tightly spinning behemoth churning inexorably up the Baja coast.

Its predicted course terminus was now firmly over the desert, still nearly 24 hours away. But weather models were unanimous: Hilary was strengthening to Category 4 intensity, and aimed to retain that brute force all the way to landfall in California.

The scenes of frantic storm prep playing out 175 miles south in San Diego would soon reach Palm Springs. Once skeptical residents were waking to the harsh reality that this tropical cyclone was no longer a distant concern.

Rattled officials urgently echoed the weather service warnings. This system was unprecedented not just in its northerly destination, but its sheer power. Sustained winds above 130 miles per hour were likely, but the biggest threat would be catastrophic rainfall over the notoriously dry region.

Local meteorologists nearly pleaded with viewers to grasp the gravity as projections mounted. Ten inches of rain or more could fall over just two days - a year’s worth of precipitation about to drench completely unprepared desert communities.

Mike stared, mouth agape as the images sunk in. A hurricane comparable to the worst Gulf Coast storms was headed for the drought-plagued valley confronting him now. The sunny paradise he’d reveled in suddenly seemed achingly fragile against nature’s whims.

Down the street, Kathy peered anxiously through living room blinds as if expecting to glimpse ominous storm clouds gathering already. The rolling news coverage only amplified her unease. Hearing Rich’s footsteps, she nearly dropped the remote fumbling to hit mute.

“Well, still quiet out there for now, but I don’t think for much longer,” he said, hugging Kathy gently. She nodded, leaning into his solid warmth, grateful not to be facing the unknown alone. “Let’s start getting ready like they keep saying.”

As the morning wore on, preparations snowballed across the city. COVID had spurred many to stockpile months of canned goods. Now those same shelves were bare again as people grabbed essentials uncertain when stores might reopen.

Planning seemed impossible with every hour bringing new reports of the storm’s might. All previous disasters were wildfires burning the surrounding hills. No one fathomed instead sheltering from hurricane gale forces pounding the desert.

At local hardware stores, anxious crowds descended seeking flashlights, batteries, and radios. Many left lugging newly purchased generators when told power loss could extend a week. The sandbags being given away ran short fast even as crews rushed to refill empty stacks.

Mike stood impatiently in one such line already snaking from the entrance by the time he arrived. Elderly folks worriedly conferred about their vulnerability in the upper valley neighborhoods. A young mother comforted her crying toddler, promising he could help fill their sandbags.

Overhearing their hushed distress amplified the lonely ache Mike had tried ignoring since last calling his worried sister that morning. Back home, family would be bracing for this together, united by familiar emergency rhythms.

Here, he was just another displaced stranger equally lost and unmoored. He felt foolish admitting his unease to vacationing neighbors also projecting nonchalance about the fuss. Behind their blithe masks, all surely wondered what chaos was barreling down on their oasis.

Nearby, Kathy gripped the steering wheel driving home slowly with a load of sandbags, hyper alert to rising winds. Swaying palm fronds underscored bulletins warning the outer bands could reach Palm Springs by early evening.

Rich had wanted to join the sandbag effort, but stayed back to ready the generator and tape window panes instead. Kathy was grateful he was there getting their fortress in order. She knew the familiar house would feel protective against whatever materialized.

Turning down their palm-lined street, she saw several elderly neighbors also arriving with bags of sand. As she and Rich helped them shovel and stack the makeshift barriers, she felt her anxiety ease slightly.

Kindness still shone, even amid worry. For now, they could only provide comfort and hope their close-knit block would be ready when the storm descended. Kathy squeezed her neighbor’s hands, promising they’d weather it safely together.

By late afternoon, Tropical Storm Warnings covered Southern California as Hilary’s outer rain bands began lashing coastal cities. Winds howled through swaying palms as people raced to reinforce their defenses. Boats were ordered ashore across marinas likely to see massive storm surge.

Mike sat glued to the TV as supplies filled the bungalow’s cupboards and his truck’s gas tank topped off. He had run through emergency scenarios ad nauseam until satisfied he was as prepared as possible. Now like millions across the region, he could only watch and wait.

Restlessness finally drove him outside into the freshening air. A few diehards still lounged poolside, but most neighborhoods were eerily deserted as families hunkered indoors. Looking west, Mike searched the hazy horizon for some hint of the tempest’s approach.

Distant ridges stood placid as ever under the low sunlight. The familiar push-pull of anticipation and denial raged in Mike’s chest. He longed for some clear sign the reports were right and every assumption he held about California’s weather was dangerously wrong.

Stepping back inside, Mike reflexively checked for updates. The storm’s expanse now spanned both coastlines of Baja, viscosity churning counterclockwise towards its date with the defenseless valley. Projections still called for landfall near Palm Springs.

Mike swallowed hard. No matter how sturdy his shelter seemed, how long he stared fruitlessly west, the models didn’t lie. This was no hype, no passing squall. An unprecedented onslaught was bearing down with singular fury aimed at the heart of the desert.

The hurricane itself would miss by miles, but its remnants were intent on colliding full-force with his corner of paradise.

Far south in San Diego, officials ordered the unprecedented evacuation of entire neighborhoods nearest the coast as first rain bands lashed the city, cutting power to thousands. Beach towns farther north like Laguna followed suit, their streets emptying under the setting sun.

Riverside County authorities stopped short of mandatory evacuations for desert communities, wary of gridlocking the vital escape route of Interstate 10 east. But Palm Springs police began urging those in flood zones to relocate voluntarily to higher ground before it was too late.

Kathy and Rich debated options as they watched their backyard fountain swaying in the gathering wind. The roiling clouds were finally visible stacking above the western mountains, but still seemed surreal threats so distant from familiar terrain.

Neither wanted to believe the downpours approaching could exceed even the canyon flash floods they’d experienced. But emergency experts made clear no one fully grasped Hilary’s capacities once the storm transitioned inland.

Rich reasoned if power went, the summer heat would quickly become unsafe without air conditioning. At least their sturdy house stood on high ground. After securing the last boards, they chose the calculated risk of sheltering in place.

“We’ve got our little life raft ready,” Rich said, pulling Kathy close as the distant rumbles grew louder. She nodded, comforted by his confidence. Come what may overnight, they would be secure riding it out together.

For Mike, sunset brought only dread multiplying as darkness fell over the valley. Brief showers pelted the windows through the evening, presaging the tempest drawing nearer. He sat watching the empty street flood intermittently under streetlights.

If these scattered outer bands unsettled him, how much worse when Hilary’s full fury arrived by morning?

The storm now spun just offshore, poised for its rare collision with land as it crept closer. Mike’s phone lit with fresh messages from home pleading for updates. He forced reassurance he was hunkered down safely.

It felt like lying. In truth, he was braced in helpless solitude against a threat no bolted door or taped window could keep at bay.

Elsewhere, holdouts reluctantly sought last-minute shelter at crowded evacuation centers as sustained winds rose. Red Cross volunteers dispensed blankets and hot coffee, maintaining morale amid bleak reports from coastal cities already taking Hilary’s pounding.

Some evacuees recalled chaotic flights from wildfires that had engulfed neighborhoods as fierce Santa Ana winds howled. That familiar menace paled beside apprehension of the swirling monster still churning towards shore.

Across the region 10 million residents shared the uneasy vigil, waiting out Nature’s unsettling patience gathering strength to unleash a rare direct hit. On this coast, no one alive had endured landfall of a hurricane still so potent. By dawn, that innocence would be shattered.

As forecasts predicted, sporadic rain and wind continued buffeting Palm Springs through the restless night. Sleep remained elusive for Mike as windows periodically rattled in powerful gusts. He listened for the dreaded increase in fury heralding Hilary’s arrival.

Near midnight, his phone buzzed with a fresh alert. The National Weather Service update was blunt: “Life threatening storm surge, rainfall, and wind expected. Last chance to evacuate or get to safe shelter.”

Mike could almost sense the vast cyclonic energy churning offshore, positioning itself for a daylong assault. The desert’s trial was at hand. All he could do was pray his hastily prepared oasis could withstand the siege.

Drifting between fitful dreams, Kathy stirred to a thunderclap finally shaking the strange sense she was imagining the whole unfolding disaster. The storm was no longer distant. She clutched Rich’s hand tightly, drawing courage as the first real squall unleashed its might against their shuttered windows.

The confrontation they dreaded had arrived. Now their only choice was to endure unrelenting hours at the hurricane’s mercy.

THE ABOVE TEXT WAS WRITTEN BY AI.