In the film Nightbitch, an adaptation of Rachel Yoder’s 2021 novel of the same name directed by Marielle Heller, a new mother contends with the growing feeling of being trapped in domestic caretaking, having left her job and put aside her pursuits as a visual artist in order to stay at home and take care of her small toddler. With her husband away for work, the repetitiveness, exhaustion, and difficulties of motherhood take a surreal turn, as her instincts begin to manifest in canine form. Write a short story that begins similarly with the acknowledgment of an element of horror in something very mundane and common, perhaps an aspect of a relationship, a job, or milestone that isn’t often depicted in gory detail or a negative light. You might find that adding a touch of fantasy or dark comedy will help illuminate your perspective.

“One must have a mind of winter,” begins Wallace Stevens’s 1921 poem “The Snow Man,” which moves from describing iconically icy and desolate imagery of winter—“the pine-trees crusted with snow,” “the junipers shagged with ice”—to pointing out the human beholder’s subjectivity as the agent who projects this wintry outlook. This week, write a poem that takes inspiration from Stevens’s first line and explore what it means to you to have “a mind of winter.” Does it entail nothingness, quietude, withholding, generosity, cheer, beauty, love? How does your selection of seasonal associations determine your poem’s tonal direction? You might even experiment with approaching this prompt more than once, when your mood about the season feels distinctively different.

In a recent New York Times article about New Year’s resolutions, Holly Burns describes the value of creating resolutions that are connected to other people. Burns cites Stephanie Harrison, author of New Happy: Getting Happiness Right in a World That’s Got It Wrong (TarcherPerigee, 2024), who says: “Our society has treated happiness as a highly individualistic pursuit—the idea being that it’s something that you make for yourself, that you get for yourself, and you do it all alone,” and yet, research shows that interpersonal relationships contribute to a significant portion of people’s happiness. Inspired by the idea of creating resolutions for the year (or beyond) that involve spending time with others, write a personal essay that reflects on times when you have discovered joy when helping or being helped by another person, perhaps unexpectedly. How might you incorporate this into future habits?

In Richard Curtis’s 2003 romantic comedy Love Actually, love is all around us—and it manifests in a wide range of ways for the characters in the film: romantic, platonic, familial, professional, and all sorts of in-between zones as well. The film, which has become a holiday classic, explores the lives of several characters and their loves, some of which are evenly balanced, while others are unrequited or lopsided; some which are new and some old. Write a short story that tells the story of multiple types of loving relationships, perhaps including both love that may seem straightforward or obvious, as well as love that is less so. When you have multiple types of love juxtaposed in one story, what do their similarities and differences illuminate?

Just last month, the bald eagle officially became the national bird of the United States, signed into law by President Biden. Though its official status is new, the bald eagle has long served as an emblem of the country, depicted on the Great Seal and on coins and bills for much of the twentieth century—a symbol of strength, courage, freedom, and independence. Many U.S. states use reptiles, amphibians, insects, fish, and even dinosaurs as their symbols. This week research and consider the various animal emblems and symbols in your midst and choose one to write a poem that draws a personal connection to the animal’s symbolic meaning, whether real or imagined. As you triangulate a relationship between yourself, an animal symbol, and a physical location in this way, explore any unexpected thematic directions within your poem.

In the documentary No Other Land, made by a Palestinian-Israeli collective of four directors over the course of five years, a group of Palestinian villages in the southern West Bank is overrun by the Israeli military as they raid and bulldoze homes while families are forced to witness the destruction. At a recent screening in New York, the filmmakers shared their thoughts in a written statement: “We as young activists offer this film to the world, which is both a document of a war crime happening now in the occupied West Bank, and a plea for a different future.” Write a personal essay that begins with recounting a recent significant event that you witnessed, noting as much granular detail as possible. If available, you might refer to photos or a paper trail to help you remember specifics. In addition to the event itself, reflect on your outlook after the event, documenting both for posterity’s sake.

The dreaded rejection letter, whether from a job application or a beloved literary journal, is often met with mixed feelings of inadequacy and disappointment. Something you worked hard on, had high hopes for, or saw a future in just didn’t pan out. Instead of imagining the receiving end, take the initiative to write a rejection letter to one of your characters. Consider the circumstance for the letter, if it’s professional or personal, and how well the writer knows the addressee. Is there room to infuse some humor or will you use this as an opportunity to write the letter you’ve always wished was sent to you? Write with truth and intent.

In her 2022 New York Times essay “The Shape of the Void: Toward a Definition of Poetry,” Elisa Gabbert writes about what makes language poetic. “I think poetry leaves something out,” she writes. “The missingness of poetry slows readers down, making them search for what can’t be found.” Write a poem that revolves around this idea of missingness and leaving something out. To facilitate a mindset of absence, you might choose a subject—a childhood memory, a relationship dynamic, a strange occurrence—that feels inherently cryptic, incoherent, or mysterious. Consider playing with line breaks, spacing, syntax, and diction, to make what’s absent hyper-present. How do the words on the page gesture toward the shape of what can’t be found?