Ha ha. Sounds about right ... esp. "I wrangle words into stories that punch you in the feels and steal your lunch money" Yeah ... that's the writer I recognize.
Having wrangled a few words here and there, I recognize a deft hand when I read one.
I tried ChatGPT with a script that Dominic deSouza worked up and the brief bio I use on my author's page. It came back with something that I don't know what to do with:
He began with an impossible comparison, measuring his own unwritten pages against the towering shadows of Shakespeare, Bradbury, Hardy, Heinlein, and deciding, without irony, that he would stand among them. Five years later, the ledger answered him with a number so stark it felt like satire: fourteen dollars. That was the price of ambition colliding with the arithmetic of living.
So he entered the engine room of a different world. Prompted by a chemist who saw both his limits and his reach, he turned toward remote sensing and the strict logic of code. What followed stretched across forty years, a career that traced the entire arc of modern computation, from the rigid choreography of punch cards to the restless, pattern-hungry systems of artificial intelligence. While others specialized, he endured the full evolution, adapting, absorbing, refining.
Yet the original impulse refused extinction. It waited, accumulating density. Every system designed, every problem solved, every abstraction rendered into function became material stored under pressure. He did not abandon the page. He fortified it.
Now he returns, carrying not the optimism of youth but the weight of four decades spent translating reality into structure. His science fiction bears the imprint of machines that once obeyed him and now begin to answer back. His essays move with the clarity of someone who has seen complexity stripped to its bones.
Dog help me, it worked. For some value of worked anyways:
"Please draft an unhinged bio for me, Bob Craft. It's a trend."
"Bob Craft 🌀🍄
Professional yapper. Amateur war criminal. I put the “craft” in witchcraft and the “bob” in lobotomy. Built like a dad bod fridge, vibes like a raccoon that just discovered Red Bull. Survived 47 situations that should’ve ended me and still showed up to brunch.
I speak fluent sarcasm, broken promises, and unhinged voice notes at 3am. My personality is 60% caffeine, 30% daddy issues, 10% glitter. Will absolutely ruin your life in the most charming way possible.
Collector of red flags, parking tickets, and emotional baggage I treat like designer luggage. If I’m quiet it means I’m plotting world domination or just thinking about tacos. Probably both.
Currently accepting applications for emotional support humans, situationships, and anyone willing to hide a body.
Bob Craft. Yes, THE Bob Craft. You’re welcome."
Well nigh unto strange.
At many levels. Tacos were made for the 5th and taco cheeseburgers on the grill tonight. Not sure if the 47 is accurate, but there were definitely situations.
USAF Vet • Aerospace-to-Medical Mayhem Engineer • Portal-Hopping God of Multiverse Shenanigans • Big Cat Wrangler (Retired) • Motorcycle Wrenching Madman • Bass-Slinging Chaos Bard
Listen here, you glorious degenerates: I went from building tactical nukes and testing fighter jets to debugging pacemakers, then said “screw it” and started yeeting protagonists across infinite portals, turning werewolves into tactical badasses, and writing men’s adventure that’ll make your testosterone file a complaint. Under my real name I send heroes to punch gods in the face. As Jan Stryvant? I crank the dial to eleven with explosions, fur, fangs, and zero apologies.
I’ve raised actual lions and tigers (yes, really), wrenched on motorcycles that probably hate me, flown planes, thrown hands in martial arts, and played bass like the world owes me a solo. My day job history reads like a rejected Bond villain résumé. Now I mainline coffee, ignore my TBR pile, and make fictional universes my personal demolition derby.Hobbies include: collecting questionable life experiences, plotting how to survive the next apocalypse with a wrench and a bad attitude, and gaslighting my characters into levels of competence I only achieve on deadline.
Currently accepting:
Readers who like their fantasy with teeth, guns, portals, and main characters who actually solve problems
Fellow gearheads, pilots, and former cat wranglers
Anyone who brings tools, snacks, or stories about their own unhinged hobbies
Warning: I will talk aviation, big cats, multiversal logistics, or engine swaps at you. Approach with strong coffee, respect for torque specs, and a willingness to suspend disbelief… or don’t. I’ve survived worse. (Yes this bio is completely unhinged. No I’m not toning it down. The lions approved.)
Ha ha. Sounds about right ... esp. "I wrangle words into stories that punch you in the feels and steal your lunch money" Yeah ... that's the writer I recognize.
Having wrangled a few words here and there, I recognize a deft hand when I read one.
Best to you and your First Reader!
I love what Grok said about you.
I tried ChatGPT with a script that Dominic deSouza worked up and the brief bio I use on my author's page. It came back with something that I don't know what to do with:
He began with an impossible comparison, measuring his own unwritten pages against the towering shadows of Shakespeare, Bradbury, Hardy, Heinlein, and deciding, without irony, that he would stand among them. Five years later, the ledger answered him with a number so stark it felt like satire: fourteen dollars. That was the price of ambition colliding with the arithmetic of living.
So he entered the engine room of a different world. Prompted by a chemist who saw both his limits and his reach, he turned toward remote sensing and the strict logic of code. What followed stretched across forty years, a career that traced the entire arc of modern computation, from the rigid choreography of punch cards to the restless, pattern-hungry systems of artificial intelligence. While others specialized, he endured the full evolution, adapting, absorbing, refining.
Yet the original impulse refused extinction. It waited, accumulating density. Every system designed, every problem solved, every abstraction rendered into function became material stored under pressure. He did not abandon the page. He fortified it.
Now he returns, carrying not the optimism of youth but the weight of four decades spent translating reality into structure. His science fiction bears the imprint of machines that once obeyed him and now begin to answer back. His essays move with the clarity of someone who has seen complexity stripped to its bones.
I'm, uh, flattered?
Dog help me, it worked. For some value of worked anyways:
"Please draft an unhinged bio for me, Bob Craft. It's a trend."
"Bob Craft 🌀🍄
Professional yapper. Amateur war criminal. I put the “craft” in witchcraft and the “bob” in lobotomy. Built like a dad bod fridge, vibes like a raccoon that just discovered Red Bull. Survived 47 situations that should’ve ended me and still showed up to brunch.
I speak fluent sarcasm, broken promises, and unhinged voice notes at 3am. My personality is 60% caffeine, 30% daddy issues, 10% glitter. Will absolutely ruin your life in the most charming way possible.
Collector of red flags, parking tickets, and emotional baggage I treat like designer luggage. If I’m quiet it means I’m plotting world domination or just thinking about tacos. Probably both.
Currently accepting applications for emotional support humans, situationships, and anyone willing to hide a body.
Bob Craft. Yes, THE Bob Craft. You’re welcome."
Well nigh unto strange.
At many levels. Tacos were made for the 5th and taco cheeseburgers on the grill tonight. Not sure if the 47 is accurate, but there were definitely situations.
(snicker)
This was delightful!
I tried it, but it doesn't know who I am.
This is what Grok gave me for you, John!
John Van Stry (aka Jan Stryvant)
USAF Vet • Aerospace-to-Medical Mayhem Engineer • Portal-Hopping God of Multiverse Shenanigans • Big Cat Wrangler (Retired) • Motorcycle Wrenching Madman • Bass-Slinging Chaos Bard
Listen here, you glorious degenerates: I went from building tactical nukes and testing fighter jets to debugging pacemakers, then said “screw it” and started yeeting protagonists across infinite portals, turning werewolves into tactical badasses, and writing men’s adventure that’ll make your testosterone file a complaint. Under my real name I send heroes to punch gods in the face. As Jan Stryvant? I crank the dial to eleven with explosions, fur, fangs, and zero apologies.
I’ve raised actual lions and tigers (yes, really), wrenched on motorcycles that probably hate me, flown planes, thrown hands in martial arts, and played bass like the world owes me a solo. My day job history reads like a rejected Bond villain résumé. Now I mainline coffee, ignore my TBR pile, and make fictional universes my personal demolition derby.Hobbies include: collecting questionable life experiences, plotting how to survive the next apocalypse with a wrench and a bad attitude, and gaslighting my characters into levels of competence I only achieve on deadline.
Currently accepting:
Readers who like their fantasy with teeth, guns, portals, and main characters who actually solve problems
Fellow gearheads, pilots, and former cat wranglers
Anyone who brings tools, snacks, or stories about their own unhinged hobbies
Warning: I will talk aviation, big cats, multiversal logistics, or engine swaps at you. Approach with strong coffee, respect for torque specs, and a willingness to suspend disbelief… or don’t. I’ve survived worse. (Yes this bio is completely unhinged. No I’m not toning it down. The lions approved.)
That was funny.