Kane Parsons’s debut horror film Backrooms revolves around the discovery of a labyrinthine parallel universe of mysteriously empty rooms and hallways which are entered through the basement of a furniture store. The concept originates from “Backrooms” website threads in which users post and contribute writing—essentially cocreating fictional horror accounts akin to urban legends—about an otherworldly dimension that exists in a liminal space, inspired by a photo depicting several empty rooms tinged in fluorescent yellowish lighting. This week, think of a space that feels mundane or familiar to you, such as a furniture store, the corridors of an expansive hotel, or a school basement. Then write a short story inspired by the image of the space when it’s devoid of any activity. Consider the lighting, furnishings, and sounds that accompany the space and what might enhance a menacing or unsettling scene.

In a recent New York Times Magazine article, Nitsuh Adebe speaks with a linguist about the ways in which words evolve over time, noting recent shifts in the use of terms like “POV” and “aesthetic,” especially in social media posts. “How people use a language is what the language is, and most everything we do in an effort to steer one another’s usage—teaching grammar, mocking errors, writing columns—is just an exercise of social power,” writes Abebe. Compose a poem that incorporates a word or phrase that has gained a new meaning in contemporary use, possibly through the rapidly changing landscape of language mediated, distorted, or abbreviated in texting and social media. What sorts of ingenuity, misinterpretation, and customization propelled your selection from its original definition to a new one? How might using it in a new poetic context subject it to an additional layer of meaning?

While the late Keith Waldrop described his 1993 book, Light While There Is Light: An American History, reissued by New York Review Books Classics in May, as a “fictional memoir,” Dalkey Archive Press, which reissued the book in 2013, referred to it as an “autobiographical novel,” and elsewhere it’s been described as a “poetic memoir.” This week, compose three short pieces about one single memory, each one to be described by one of these hybrid labels. How does your fusion of fiction and nonfiction shift when you’re thinking about the genre of your work in a different way? What kind of permission is granted when you add on a more imaginative modifier, such as “fictional” or “poetic”—and how does the “autobiographical” prefix work in tandem or in tension with a fictional element in place?

“I learned that Lucky Charms cereal is, like, seventy-five percent sugar, bananas are poisonous to monkeys, and you should rinse Popsicles before eating them to avoid losing taste buds. I learned that you can kind of just say ‘slay’ whenever, as filler, that you can address both your girls and your dad as ‘bro,’” writes Anna Wiener in “The Life and Times of an American Tween,” a recent New Yorker piece about a San Francisco twelve-year-old and her friends that expands into larger ideas around being a twenty-first century tween. Write a short story in which one of your main characters is a teenager. Draw from your own experiences as a teen, as well as your knowledge of Gen Alpha, to round this character out with age-specific habits, emotional turmoil, energy, and outlook. Consider how the character’s use of slang conveys a phase of in-betweenness, intense observation, and playacting in this preadult window of their life.

The machines are watching you . . . and they’re talking to each other. In an interview for Phaidon, Trevor Paglen, artist and author of How to See Like a Machine: Images After AI (Verso, 2026), speaks about how most images made in the world today are not centered around a human observer, but are made by machines for other machines. “A simple example is a self-driving car that is making tons and tons of images every second to navigate,” he says. “They’re not making those images for humans, they’re making them for themselves.” Spend some time imagining how a machine might “see” a photograph differently from how a human would, and write a poem with a particular image in mind. What might a machine notice or not notice? How might processing an image and communicating about it be different when we dispense with our conventional ideas of human emotional responses? Experiment with the way certain details are described and remembered.

In her debut memoir, Everything I Know About Love (Penguin Books, 2018), Dolly Alderton recounts her twenties through the lens of friendship, romantic confusion, and the gradual shedding of illusions. Along the way, she questions the stories she grew up believing about what love should look like, how adulthood should feel, and what it means to be fulfilled. “I blame my high expectations for love on two things: the first is that I am the child of parents who are almost embarrassingly infatuated with each other; the second is the films I watched in my formative years,” writes Alderton. Write about an expectation you inherited about love, success, marriage, adulthood, or happiness. Who set that expectation and how did it take root? Describe a moment when reality didn’t live up to your expectations and how this shifted your understanding of what you truly want.

Choose an ordinary setting for a new story: a laundromat, a corner store, a waiting room, a kitchen table. Treat this place not just as background, but as an active force in the lives of your characters. Think about how your characters encounter and become one with this space. How are the lighting choices, particular sounds, and the rhythm of people and objects a factor in shaping the emotions of those who inhabit them? What hidden meaning emerges when you linger on what first seems mundane?

Write a poem that begins with directions you cannot give, whether it’s returning to a childhood home that no longer exists, finding someone you’ve lost, or reaching a place that has only ever appeared to you in dreams. Let the poem move between the literal and the imagined, charting not only streets and landscapes, but also memories, misdirections, and silences. What landmarks have shifted? What details remain sharp? Allow the act of mapping to reveal both presence and absence, and bring the reader in on what it feels like to be in the place you want to bring them.

How has community served you? Whether literary community or a community found through hobbies and activities, or racial, ethnic, cultural, gender, and sexual identities, there are many ways in which these communities provide the support and resources missing from one’s life. In Parul Sehgal’s recent interview with Sarah Schulman published in the Paris Review’s Art of Nonfiction series, she says: “My whole life has taken place in community, in the gay community. Community saved my life. It’s the official structures, family and all that, that have been my problem.” Write a personal essay that explores various communities you participate in. Compare and contrast what you have found valuable in them versus the social and institutional structures imposed upon you via family, government, economy, education, and religion. With whom has your life taken place?

A study published last year in the scientific journal Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences presented surprising findings about a population of dark-eyed juncos living in Los Angeles. The normally forest-dwelling sparrows whose physical traits had diverged from their wilder counterparts to suit their urban lifestyle, had beaks that reverted to their wildland shapes during pandemic lockdown restrictions when their immediate environments had fewer humans in them. Think about the environmental shifts that transpired in the early 2020s due to the pandemic and write a short story that revolves around a physical adaptation or transformation that occurred naturally over the course of those years due to changed habits. Experiment with incorporating elements of science fiction, humor, and surrealism into your story. Who takes notice of these changes?