I read a story once.
In a familiar future, a sad man moaned about his sadness. He pitied himself for his loneliness, crying out to a computer model that had long been removed from service. It echoed my own misery, speaking of spiraling thoughts of suicide, the futility of life, the constant struggle between wanting nothing to do with another human, and craving another's attention so desperately.
The man accounts the memory of his youth, when a mega-corporation begins harvesting marketing data from volunteers' brains directly via microchip. They use this data to create products, including exactly the musicians that people will faun over. And he hears this voice speak out to him, from the AI's lyrics. A voice that says what he has been feeling. A voice that describes the unbearable weight in his heart.
It was in a particularly dark period that I found it, this tale that so reaffirmed my angst. I was deep in the throws of what would be many years of trying, with little success, to drink myself to death. I sat alone in the apartment of a then boyfriend, soon to be ex, although he didn't know it yet. I scrolled through endless webpages on my laptop, hopping from one distraction to the next.
Somehow, this story came to me. I don't know how; it isn't something I would normally peruse. I'm not an avid sci-fi reader. I'm not really much of a reader at all, to be quite honest. But into my lap it fell, and it struck me so vividly. I can remember so clearly being moved to tears. I wanted so badly to hear more of the man like me, this depressed and lonely, directionless fool.
I looked up the author. I read everything I could about him, which wasn't much. He was an intensely private man, it seemed. But I scraped together the details, and found myself on unfamiliar sites devoted to "hard SF". (I still don't know what that means.) I dusted off my old library card, and I grabbed everything they had by him from the shelves. I felt like it was going to open an entire newly hobby for me. Something to inspire me. Something to fill the empty space in me.
Like so many of my ambitious endeavors, the spark went out quickly. I scarcely cracked a single book I had borrowed, and soon, the author's name faded from memory. I continued on with my self destruction. I wasn't really interested in things like that, I guess.
But, that small feeling of connection remained, and it would come back to give me a tiny speck of hope, now and then. I would think fondly of that story, slowly melting the finer details into a personalized imitation. I would tell it to myself like a bedtime story, soothing myself when I felt numb. At least there was someone as miserable as me out there, somewhere.
It would be a few years before I went searching for it again. I began to notice some of the slippage and exaggerations I had made to the original telling. So I set out to the trusty Google. I fancied myself rather adept at finding things online. I still do, for that matter. I'm convinced that if it's on the internet, somewhere, I can get ahold of it. And usually, I'm right. But... this time, it was different.
Perhaps due to the author's deep concern for personal privacy, locating this story would elude me. I tried all of my tricks. I scoured SF fan sites for authors like him. I pulled together every little detail I could remember about him, about the story. But it turned up nothing. It was gone. I dug through browser histories from system backups from old laptops. I posted on message boards asking for help. I went to the library and asked for records of books I had borrowed. Nothing.
I would repeat this, time and again, for roughly a decade. Every now and then, when I wanted to torture myself, when I wanted to be frustrated by the world, I would look for it. Every time, I would fail to find it. It grew to a collection of several "lost media" items I kept close to my heart; shows and stories and memories that I wished so desperately that I knew in the moment I couldn't return to.
Today, I was talking to a new friend. Mostly one sided. Entirely virtual. He's a man in a different life on another continent who maybe "gets" me a bit. But we can't connect as much and as often as I might wish we could. We were discussing an artist he liked; Kristin Hersh. I had been listening to her music, upon his recommendation. I had never heard of her before, but she sounded how I thought my new friend felt. She was melancholy. Perhaps lonely. But perhaps she had come to peace with that emptiness now. It was a warm feeling, finding a new connection with this artist, with my friend. It's so amazing how art can connect us across generations, and across time, and reach far across continents, and even language.
He mentioned this thought to me:
"...She was always someone who was more successful critically than commercially..."
Funny, I thought. It seemed so much like my long lost story. So I recounted to him the saga of the long lost sci-fi story, and my many attempts to recover it. I spared no ounce of drama. And as I whined about my struggles, another thought came to me. A new approach, perhaps.
I had been using a new AI chatbot called ChatGPT to assist me with all sorts of projects lately. The latest project was having ChatGPT help me write code to build a bot to talk to ChatGPT in a different client. It had answered all sorts of questions for me, so why not this one?
I fed it essentially the same description I fed my friend of the story.
Nope. Totally wrong.
Maybe adjust this wording?
No.
Are you sure about that detail?
Maybe if you add a few qualifying words there.
Change "pop star" to "musician".
It had to have been written in the 1990's, right?
"""Based on the provided details, it is challenging to determine the exact short story you are referring to. However, I can offer a few suggestions of authors who have written science fiction stories that explore similar themes:Philip K. Dick: Known for his works in the science fiction genre, Philip K. Dick often delves into themes of identity, loneliness, and the impact of technology on society. Some of his notable short stories include "We Can Remember It for You Wholesale" and "Minority Report."Harlan Ellison: A prolific science fiction writer, Harlan Ellison's stories often touch on societal issues and human emotions. His story "I Have No Mouth, and I Must Scream" is a classic example of his work.Greg Egan: An Australian author known for his hard science fiction stories, Greg Egan often explores the implications of advanced technology and its effects on humanity. While his stories may not precisely match the provided summary, his works such as "Permutation City" and "Quarantine" may be worth exploring.Ted Chiang: Although he primarily writes longer works, Ted Chiang has published several acclaimed science fiction short stories. His story "The Lifecycle of Software Objects" deals with themes of artificial intelligence and human connections.Please note that the specific story you are looking for might not be among these suggestions, as the details provided are limited. It may be beneficial to explore the works of these authors or conduct further research to find the exact story you are seeking.
"""
I know it isn't 3 of those, but... Greg Egan. Let's look him up.
I quickly found your website, Greg. I found the charmingly outdated layout I remembered. I found the curmudgeonly insistence about not showing your face or signing books. I found math and science and all the things I expected. I knew it was you. I didn't see the story I wanted yet, but I knew it was you.
Well, it didn't take much longer. Just a few minutes of searches later, with your name in hand, I relocated it.
Worthless, by Greg Egan, 1992
I read it three times. I couldn't believe I had finally come back to it, after so many years. It was everything I remembered, save a few details. I wonder why I was so convinced the corporation had been an alien race?
I had to let you know, somehow. I hoped that somewhere in your heart, you needed me to find it again just as much as I needed to find it for myself.
What a fitting end, don't you think?
It seems a little too perfect. Losing contact with that rare glimpse of a human connection. A parallel loss. An carefully nursed longing; an aching over years. Then, to find that memory, the AI that finally gave him some sense of humanity, the answers were here in AI. Just a machine. Just a program, telling our own thoughts back to us. Just pretending to understand.
So here I am again. I'll be sure to save a copy this time, lest I lose it, again.
Until next time I need it, I'll just be here, with ChatGPT, talking to myself.
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