It would be cool if there was a spot in Sudowrite devoted to converting one format of text to another. For my purposes, script to prose would be best. I tend to write my first drafts in rough script and then flesh them out into prose, and it would be great if Sudowrite could handle the first round of this edit. I know quite a few writers who draft this way. For now, I came up with this prompt that works well directly in GPT 4 (I'm adding Gilmore Girls script for illustration)...

Please convert the script-style narration below into a prose-style narration in the Genre, Narrative Perspective, and Tone/Style specified below. Flesh out the details between and around the dialogue, including action, gestures, place, and imagery. The characters' emotions should be inferred indirectly through their actions.

GENRE: Humor
NARRATIVE PERSPECTIVE: First-person POV from Rory’s perspective
TONE/STYLE: The tone and writing style should be light-hearted and humorous, engaging the reader through playful, conversational language, rhetorical questions, whimsical absurdity, hyperbole, and exaggeration. Please maintain the stylistic and thematic elements from the script in the prose version.

SCRIPT-STYLE NARRATION

OPEN AT LORELAI'S HOUSE
[Lorelai and Rory are on the sofa watching "The Brady Bunch Variety Hour"]
RORY: This is sublime.
LORELAI: It was the golden age of television.
RORY: The music, the costumes, the sets.
LORELAI: All cylinders were fired on this one, boy!
RORY: And who knew that they all had such musical talent?
LORELAI: And such far out booty shaking abilities, as well.
[The mailman walks through the front door and sets the mail on the bench]
EDDIE: Mail, ladies.
LORELAI: Thanks, Eddie!
[Eddie walks back out; Rory walks over to get the mail]
RORY: Did you see that TV Guide had this on their list of the worst fifty shows of all time?
LORELAI: I know! Who are they to judge?
RORY: I know, it's on my top fifty best.
LORELAI: Yeah, right after "Holmes and Yoyo" and "Hee Haw Honeys." Oh, Rory, get back here! They're in clown suits and headed for the pool.
RORY: Oh my God.
LORELAI: Honey, come here.
RORY: It's here.
LORELAI: What's here?
RORY: My application to Harvard.

And here's the product...

Ah, the sweet sanctity of our humble abode. A true castle in the sky, where Lorelai - my incredibly zany mother - and I, Rory, indulge in our sacred ritual. Our plush sofa, our televisual altar, broadcasts "The Brady Bunch Variety Hour". As far as I'm concerned, it's the Sistine Chapel of TV shows. "This is sublime," I declare, with no ounce of irony whatsoever.

"It was the golden age of television," my mother, the sardonic sage, proclaims, her eyes never leaving the hypnotic dance of Bradys on the screen.

As I contemplate the show's unparalleled mastery of music, costumes, and set design, she nods sagely, "All cylinders were fired on this one, boy!"

I mean, who would have ever suspected that a pseudo-family of '70s sitcom stars possessed such a diverse reservoir of talent? Musical prodigies hidden behind polyester suits and bell-bottoms. "And who knew that they all had such musical talent?" I wonder aloud, feeling an odd sense of satisfaction.

My mom smirks, adding, "And such far out booty shaking abilities, as well." She's got a point. Those Bradys can certainly cut a rug.

As we continue our deep scholarly discourse on the nuances of the Brady Bunch's artistic prowess, Eddie, our mailman - who apparently has been bequeathed the magical ability to enter our home unannounced - drops off the mail on our bench. He greets us, "Mail, ladies." Ever the effervescent social butterfly, my mom responds with a cheery, "Thanks, Eddie!" As soon as he disappears back through the door, I feel the siren call of the mail and abandon the Bradys to their variety shenanigans.

The TV Guide has rated our beloved show as one of the worst fifty shows of all time. Absurd! "Who are they to judge?" Mom exclaims. After all, it sits proudly on my top fifty best, right along with classics like "Holmes and Yoyo" and "Hee Haw Honeys."

As if on cue, the Bradys reappear on screen in clown suits, marching toward a pool. Lorelai, in her quintessential motherly wisdom, interrupts my mail perusal, "Oh, Rory, get back here! They're in clown suits and headed for the pool."

My heart skips a beat as I spot a familiar large envelope in the mail pile. "Oh my God." It's arrived. The culmination of years of hard work, the golden ticket to my future.

"Honey, come here," Mom coaxes, not realizing that my world has momentarily stopped.

"It's here." I can barely breathe out the words.

"What's here?" Mom is confused.

"The future," I respond, holding up the envelope. "My application to Harvard."