The Time Is Now

A human skull, eleven boxes full of used corks, a reel of an old cycling race, an eighteenth-century textbook—these are some of the real items discovered in attics from an article published in the Guardian. What’s hidden in your home? Write a short story that revolves around a character who has just moved into a new place, or is exploring a previously unexamined part of their home, and makes a startling discovery in an attic, basement, shed, or crawl space. Does your character attempt to formulate a story around the findings or locate the original owners of the home? Is there a creative, monetary, or emotional value to be found in the object?

“When does the box of a story—a painting, a sonnet, a name—limit, and when does it free? Can it do both? What do I tell, and what do I obscure?” asks Anne Marie Rooney in a brief description of her poem “Abstraction,” published in the Academy of American Poets’ Poem-a-Day series. This week, consider the parameters of a poem—the space on the page and the length of the line, the language, the type of poetic form—and write a poem whose subject matter interrogates the limitations of your chosen form. How can you play with freedom within the confines of this “box of a story?” 

Take a pivotal moment from your own life and reimagine it through the lens of a specific genre or style. You might frame it as a ghost story, a myth, a detective case, or even a surreal fairy tale. Pay attention to how the conventions of that genre shape the reader’s perception of your experience and the ways that tension, suspense, and exaggeration can illuminate truth in unexpected ways. Consider what the shift in perspective reveals about how you remember this moment, the trajectory of your emotions, and the narrative you tell yourself about what occurred.

Character names in stories do more than identify—they can resonate, offer foreshadowing, and sometimes mislead. The name Hester traces its origins to the ancient Greek language, where it acquired the meaning of “star,” and in Hawthorne’s novel The Scarlet Letter, Hester Prynne shines bright with strength and resilience amid public shaming and condemnation. The cold-hearted Ebenezer Scrooge of Dicken’s A Christmas Carol became so well-known that his name is synonymous for someone who is a miser and uncharitable. Remus Lupin of the Harry Potter series takes his name from the Latin word “lupus” meaning “wolf,” a nod to his werewolf heritage. Write a story in which you name a character with intention. Let the name echo inner conflict, irony, or destiny.

According to a recent article in Psychology Today, while most people’s earliest memories are remembered like silent films—rich with imagery but largely void of sound—for a select few who have an auditory first memory, they may also have a “sound-minded” orientation in life, in which the “sensory modality of hearing is inseparable from their way of being.” This week, taking inspiration from these two possibilities, compose a pair of poems with contrasting takes on sound. Choose one childhood memory and write one sound-filled version and one silent version. Take some time to think about the various ways in which sound can be conveyed through stylistic decisions involving alliteration and consonance, typography and punctuation, and rhythm. How might line breaks and spacing on the page contribute to a sense of silence?

Kate Zambreno’s Animal Stories, published by Transit Books in September, is divided into two sections: “Zoo Studies” and “My Kafka System.” The first section includes essays that meld accounts of various zoo visits with meditations on animals, ideas about enclosure and captivity, and familial relationships and motherhood for human and nonhuman animals alike. The second section examines various aspects of the life and work of the famed author whose stories have centered around an ape, a mouse, a dog, hybrid creatures, and, of course, a giant insect. Taking your cue from Zambreno’s wide-ranging pieces, write a series of short reflections on animals that progresses with associative logic. Allow yourself permission to go down any rabbit holes, as deeply as you wish. Take inspiration from the realms of science and other artistic mediums to include intriguing anecdotes and historical facts.

“I arrived in the middle of the night to save you from the terrible smoke, I had a dream about you and so I decided to come and see you, I arrived just in time,” writes Ariana Harwicz in Unfit (New Directions, 2025), translated from the Spanish by Jessie Mendez Sayer. In the novel an Argentine migrant worker laboring as a grape picker in southern France is thrown into a tailspin after losing custody of her two young sons; she sets fire to her in-laws’ farmhouse, kidnaps her children, and embarks on a manic road trip. The terrifying and darkly humorous first-person narration is filled with contradictions and falsehoods and comma-filled run-on sentences, structured in frenzied, rambling paragraphs that mirror the protagonist’s delusionary state of mind. Write a story that plays with narrative voice in a similar way, aligning the mindset of your protagonist with a frenetic style of storytelling. Are there moments of levity that can provide a reprieve from the pacing?

In the introduction to John Berryman’s Only Sing: 152 Uncollected Dream Songs, forthcoming in December from Farrar, Straus and Giroux, editor Shane McCrae makes the case that Berryman’s The Dream Songs—a compilation of two books, 77 Dream Songs (FSG, 1964) and His Toy, His Dream, His Rest (FSG, 1968)—is an epic poem, pointing to its stylistic concision. “The language of an epic poem must be, in its way, as compressed as the language of a lyric poem,” he writes, “and in those moments when it is not compressed, the language must strike the reader as relaxed from compression, and loaded with the certainty of future compression.” Another feature of epic poems is the presence of a hero, although McCrae notes that Berryman’s Henry is an “unheroic hero,” variably charming, gloomy, facetious, and colloquial. Begin composing a series of poems that contain these two elements of traditional epic poetry. How does your hero or antihero function to create a binding narrative?

Findings from a study in Peru, published earlier this year in the journal Ecosphere, reported that for the first time single individuals of ocelot and opossum were “associating and moving together in the rainforest”—two species generally occupying positions of predator and prey instead choosing to spend time hanging out together. Scientists aren’t quite certain about the reason but have conjectured that there might be something symbiotic about the cooperation that benefits both animals as they hunt for other prey. Write a personal essay that examines the experiences you’ve had with a friend with whom the relationship might seem unexpected or inexplicable. How did you meet and what were the factors that drew you together despite your differences?

A single father living quietly with his daughter in a small mountain village in Japan finds his day-to-day routine and peaceful, self-sufficient existence disrupted by real estate developers in Ryusuke Hamaguchi’s 2023 film Evil Does Not Exist. The collaborative systems of care and mutual exchange that characterize the villagers’ way of life clash with the corporation’s focus on capitalist profit, and the delicate balance of nature and civilization is called into question. This week write a short story that revolves around the disturbance of a balance between nature and culture. You might find it helpful to begin by brainstorming specific areas in your chosen setting where the natural environment and human-made spaces depend on each other or have had to adjust to make way for the other. What are the ramifications of a disruption to this balance?