Introduction

Harrison Berry

When I was in the second grade my teacher Mrs. Elm assigned the class to write a short story. Mine was about an Antarctic expedition gone haywire: The scientiic vessel crashed into an iceberg, forcing the crew to evacuate. All seemed hopeless for a few sentences as the members of the expedition slipped on the ice and met a rookery of friendly seals, until the captain remembered he’d packed an inlatable spare boat, complete with a laboratory. Reading over my work, my mother alerted me to my error. Stories, she said, have conlict, something mine only suggested. The problem was one of low stakes. By losing its boat my expedition lost nothing; and a reader should expect the destruction of the vessel to have some kind of impact on the story overall. That is the story of the irst story I ever wrote, and I tell it because I think there are universal elements about this creative process that bear on what writing does for the artist and for the world. Judging The Cabin’s Writers in the Attic contest this year was a tremendous honor, and reading and re-reading the work of so many talented authors gave me a chance to consider where our craft its into the outline of things. I was in the middle of considering a professional change when The Cabin asked me to be a part of this contest. For the previous eight years I’d worked at Boise Weekly, irst as the calendar editor, then as a reporter, and inally as its managing editor. One of my duties was to organize the Fiction 101 contest, which I looked forward to all year. I loved gathering the judging panel and reading the entries, and seeing how our guest artist illustrated the winners. Finally, we’d throw a party where authors would read their work.

Writers in the Attic is a scaled-up version of that. The stories are longerand you can submit poetry. Plus, the winners are published in the lovely book you’re holding. But also, writing contests draw out the things that concern us, and trends always emerge. For this contest I read a lot of pieces about war, miscarriages and bees. The theme of this year’s Writers in the Attic is “rupture;” and while a handful of entrants slipped the word into their pieces like the mystery ingredient on a reality cooking show, there were some who took a

more conceptual view. Every entry, however, betokened its author and pierced the storm of fraught news events, politics and hot takes. Art matters. You matter. Art is more than an antidote to a toxic environment: It’s a positive civic good. Just as public art beautiies public spaces, literature enlivens civil society. It calls on us to interact, promote, critique and care; and is salubrious to the democratic impulse. You hold in your hands one of many sinews that hold people together, and the pieces in this book prove that strangers can make you feel something. Maybe that pithy story or heady poem can help refocus your mind’s eye. The Cabin plays a special role in all of this, holding workshops, camps for kids and public readings by major authors. Writers in the Attic is one of the Treasure Valley’s cultural factory loors. It invites broad participation and ofers a chance at publication. Though I judged these entries incognizant of who wrote them, I like to think that I selected pieces representing a broad range of writers so any reader might be able to imagine their own work printed in a future edition. After leaving Boise Weekly, I took a job writing for Boise State University, and in my spare time I do freelance journalism. At this point, I can safely say I am a writer. Do not mistake this for some kind of self-congratulation. Writing is really hard. It loosens the lid on the pickle jar of your insecurities, and questions of craft like “Do I make sense?” or “Is this good?” distract and stymie. Publication can bring other soul-aches. Some people fear this part the way others fear public speaking. My own experience of seeing my work in print has been an exercise in integrity. Every edit and correction feels like a personal attack at irst, but learning to use judgement, make mistakes and be wrong with grace has been worth every bite and sting. It’s the same for the artist: Your criticism of your own work doesn’t stop after publication. If anything, it intensiies, and the only way forward is to recognize that you will blunder, get rejected and occasionally fail. The good news is that in time, these things will happen less often and you will develop the wherewithal to deal with them better when they do. Seeing one’s work in print can billow the soul, too. A byline should be asource of pride and a sign that someone sees the merit of your work. I chose

these pieces because they struck me. Each has a fresh conceit, takes an original approach, ofers a sharp image or simply says a thing in a really engaging way. On every page of this book is something that inches, skates or soars toward its point. My mother demanded revisions to my story. The captain and crew should be rescued. They should face a threat, like polar bears. I erased much of what I’d written and wrote down what mom said, but hadn’t learned my lesson. I still leaned into circular storytelling and endings tied up with a bow. When I was nearly 30, an editor and great friend who was fed up with my dithering journalism told me to seek out the conlict in things. His practical advice echoed my mom’s words of wisdom, and I felt as though I’d been restored to thought and speech. Writing can confront the world or something in ourselves. It can split the atom of an idea or dare a reader to dive into a sea of pure imagination. Set loose, literature has the power to level challenges, set expectations and transform.

HARRISON BERRY July 2021

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RUPTURE

writers in the attic

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FRACTURE

I think that God, in creating man, somewhat overestimated his ability.

OSCAR WILDE

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