The Haslam-Belardes controversy unveiled in N.L.’s take on Heyday Books’ Great Valley Books Writers Conference - By N.L. Belardes

Merced, California is not the kind of Central Valley city you would expect the first Great Valley Books Writers Conference to be held. Oh yes, the downtown drag down Main Street does have its All-American quaintness: homeless folks pushing big baskets, artsy folks milling about, a movie theatre and playhouse, a friendly Starbucks with nearby green metal benches perfect for podcast interviews, and in a spurt of renaissance style growth, the city center enjoys the Multicultural Arts Center as the apparent hub giving such downtown rejuvenation reason to have a pulse.


Wandering the streets of Merced, CA.

No, this wasn’t Fresno, Stockton, or even Bakersfield—you know Hollywood’s Backyard where movies are filmed and America’s oil empire meets agricultural Mecca. Yes, Bakersfield was all but forgotten throughout the day except for the arrival of one particular rebellious fellow from the Southern San Joaquin and his blogger/writer/Noveltown friend. No I don’t mean Gerald Haslam, though his working class literature does have hints of rebelliousness as it is based on Okie descendents tucked away in Oildale, California: the rough-and-tough Bakersfield suburb from the lost days of Hoovervilles along the banks of the mighty Kern.

No, I’m talking about Matildakay and myself, the guy with the most controversial underground book in the valley; the guy bold enough to tell the local newspaper that writing for free is for the birds, that local entertainment writers should write on local entertainment or get fired. As a novelist with an underground website that breaks news stories before the local paper, getting called an ‘uncivil bully’ by one of the last private newspapers in the country was a great honor. Being recognized as the David in society has always been far more rewarding than having the label of Goliath taped to a Neanderthal forehead.





I popped out of bed ten minutes early at 4:20am just to make the trek northward across the Central Valley. ‘The War Days’ director and ‘Dude on the Ice’ were asleep but not for long as I made sure to flick on lights and pound doors. They have grandparents in Merced, so it made for a good opportunity for them to see family while I glimpsed the world of Central Valley writers as seen through the eyes of a reporting novelist. I also phoned Matildakay to wake her up so she wouldn’t miss out on meeting other writer folk.

Traveling through the Central Valley it was all about talk radio: the Barry Bonds drug issue being the overwhelming topic. I think someone should start a story in the tabloids how Bonds is so filled with steroids that now they’re pumping his byproducts into the baseballs themselves right before he smacks them outta the park. I can just see them now, flying into some faraway San Francisco lagoon. All the balls there along with a couple of drops of mercury are sure to sprout a Godzilla or two from such murky eco-steroid depths of strange organic/plastic material.

Downtown Merced was a quick exit off the 99. Before we knew it we parked just past ‘K’ Street and wandered into Starbucks. There we met Kenny Rogers—pre-Burt Reynolds plastic skin look-a-like phase—where my boys would spend the day deep in the heart of Merced culture with their grandparents: eating good food at grandma’s and then going to watch Scary Movie IV. Now that’s the Merced I always knew; where going to the park in the summer meant going to Merced’s Applegate Park for an afternoon watching a wolf try to survive the Central Valley heat without a crushed ice soda or freezing lime-flavored orchata, and then hearing stories about local football, softball games, tractor joyrides and great movie spoofs.



Just down the street, Matildakay and I wandered into Merced’s Multicultural Arts Center. We were bummed chingpea of Smalltown Girls couldn’t make the trip. She’s a big part of the growth of Noveltown; her public relations skills are as incredible an asset as her potty talk on the podcast. I wandered in and right away recognized event organizer Patricia Wakida and Gerald Haslam, writer and professor of California literature; he talked to Heyday Books’ publisher Malcolm Margolin.





I’m not sure if I was the youngest novelist in the house, but Malcolm’s beard looked at least three times as old as me. It’s long and grey and has a historic value to California literature all its own. I don’t think Malcolm will mind me joking. He’s a terribly funny guy with a big heart who was great to listen to in the few conversations I enjoyed with him throughout the day. We had a brief conversation just prior to the start of conference where he wondered if I had a run-in with Gerald Haslam. I started our conversation in as cryptic novelist fashion as possible, “Hi Mr. Margolin. I knew Don Ackland.” I had to get his attention, and I sure did. He spun around and looked at me as if I’d just described a ghost.


Malcolm and his ancient beard. Read more...

“I never knew if he was the most brilliant man I ever met, or the most looney. He mentioned you might have had a run-in with Haslam,” he said.

I never had a run-in with Haslam, that’s for sure.

I was never certain what kind of spin my old agent had put on me, and I never knew Haslam, only having met him once or twice. I had given Haslam a copy of The Citrus Girl, a novel I completed in 1998. He later claimed he couldn’t open the computer files, which I found strange as I had given him common rich text files (.rtf) that could be opened in any word processing program on either a MAC or a PC. I did my homework. Later I made interesting remarks to several friends that there were certain coincidental attributes between his novel, Straight White Male, and The Citrus Girl. No, I don’t believe there was plagiarism, even though I’m sure the files given to him were readable. There were some coincidences between the two books: faint likenesses of The Citrus Girl here and there... shadows of narrations, parallels in characters, etc., that I’m sure were simply because we both wrote about aspects of the same region in the Southern Central Valley. Haslam and I probably think a little alike: that any good novel out of Bakersfield needs to be regional, a tasty morsel of Central Valley literature in its descriptive nature.

In the end, readers will come up with their own conclusions as they study any parallels between Straight White Male and The Citrus Girl. They’re both worthy reads as Bakersfield literature, Central Valley literature, California literature...




Malcolm Margolin gives a wreath of achievement
to poet Lawson Fusao Inada, who bestowed it on Malcolm

As the keynote speaker, Malcolm gave the first introduction of the day. He welcomed painter Paul Buxman. Like writer David Mas Masumoto, Buxman is both farmer and artist. I find such a combination of arts and nature fascinating as I have explored such thoughts for my future, contemplating orchards and a pear cider brewery. Buxman himself is a fourth generation peach farmer. He came to the conference as a friend of Central Valley artists.

“You are the Mona Lisa,” Buxman said as he talked about Central Valley writers believing in themselves as worthy subjects for their literary and poetic visions.

“The world is hungry for your story. In fact, the world is dying to hear from you,” he said. I found his message uplifting, even though I was disappointed when he pointed out that he would never use the Internet in his lifetime. He’s just too busy for it.

Next up were poetry, fiction, and non-fiction workshops. Tim Z. Hernandez and Lawson Fusao Inada both were to give poetry talks. I normally focus on literature, so what the heck, why not dive into an expert understanding of today’s rhythms in poetry? Why not try to understand the word-space around one’s existence? Descriptiveness of such poetic understanding is there. You just have to learn to be aware of the space around you, right?







Matildakay and I decided to cover Hernandez’ workshop before moving on to the study of fiction. Definitely the hippest guy at the conference, Hernandez is a quiet man with a deep-rooted understanding of the arts, and an even deeper-seeded understanding of the world around him. Although he teaches, he’s also an artist who reaches into his surroundings as if penetrating with an aura of tentacles; gathering, harvesting thoughts, building on his knowledge by discussing and experimenting with his own frames of space and existence. He quickly got the group to understand the special relationships found within meditation, looking inward and outward, and feeling such images as a path to a sort of poetic breath on paper: a quick exhale of what the mind might breathe within just a few moments of relaxed clarity. Musicians from south central LA played on guitars as the gathering contemplated poems. Afterwards we recited poems. I had been walking around while others explored visions. I believe my wandering and photo-taking caused me to write a poem about moving: the morning trip to Merced blended with the energy and urge to write, caused by an inspirational moment.

Moving through the valley,
morning drive northward.
Stop to see downtown theatres.
Kids meeting grandpa with morning coffee;
Snapping a photo of the morning sun,
wander to the arts center
in a semi-circle of poets.
Hardwood floors;
music-driven tears
on a freeway of images.
Hernandez says, “Close your eyes,
write a poem of eye-images.”
Photos of hands cover faces
as guitars pull my consciousness to write.

After I read my poem, Hernandez mentioned journalists writing in similar fashion. I may be a citizen journalist, but only after being a novelist/poet/artist/photographer. I hope Hernandez comes to think of me as a novelist/artist first.

Next we went outside to explore our own ability to describe our surroundings, to explore ourselves within the context of object filled space, and to see space in its different forms and consistencies.






Examine the difference in how Hernandez is aware of the wall,
whereas the students just seem to allow it to hold themselves up.

I noticed Hernandez explored his surroundings in a much different way than the people attending the workshop. At times he stood with his eyes closed and felt around into the surrounding air, while students focused with their eyes instead of their full range of senses. After I watched him lean against a wall I said, “Are you exploring space with more than your eyes? Are you exploring awareness with tentacles from all your senses?”

He agreed.

I thought about the line of students with their backs to an explosion of color, a poem right behind them, cool against their backs. I thought about the students scattering, not like leaves, but actually drawn by each other’s energy as they explored passing traffic, a grey belly of clouds, dirt around a tree, a motorcycle helmet…





I saw space differently. I saw a teacher and students in a realm of space and objects within that space. I saw the exploration of minds among passing minds that didn’t understand nor cared about society ever listening to poets. I saw movement of the world in relation to observers. I saw space beyond lines: the curve of the earth hiding the space of a ball, the wall holding a building with empty rooms, the ground beneath a tree intertwined in a cube of dirt that earthworms passed freely through and that we couldn’t see unless we dug into that cube and changed its very shape. I watched an old woman across the street walk as if through molasses.



The art of space.

The hidden poems in the world within the complexity of individual awareness.

The creativity to be able to explore such awareness using senses that tap into the abstract in the world surrounding each of us.

The fiction workshop wasn’t abstract at all but a straightforward analytical taste of storytelling. The exercise I took part in was to break into groups and tell stories about a scar or birth. Our table chose scars. Everyone was to tell their story, and then individually we were to chose a story to try and tell exactly as we heard it.

Right.



My table lacked the ability to spin a good ‘scar’ story, Matildakay included. In such a group she clearly had the best story, but wouldn’t tell it out of embarrassment and her nature of hiding. I told it in the Chicano novel Thick White Crust. Oh she told a version about as dry as a loaf of ten-day-old bread. I even purposely told a boring scar story so hers would be the focus. Ay! But let me tell you her dramatic knee-shattering Hollywood tale complete with a Nicolas Cage obsessed flamboyant artist is a hilarious whopper of a scar story. She told a mousy version that had me thinking of big blocks of stinky cheese. Bored, and because I have already written Matildakay’s scar story, I took another woman’s tale of falling off a horse 20 years ago. I only half listened as I obtained just enough fodder for a brief slice of workshop fiction:

Carol flew off her horse in a slow moving moment that had her singing the second verse of “Bumpy Hillbilly Hayride” even before she hit the ground. In what had been a quiet ride, she chomped an apple, slogged a mouthful of whiskey and thought about an afternoon affair with last week’s poolboy, Antonio, only to feel the horse’s wide ass suddenly shoot her into the dusty Sonora air. Now, horses buck for varying reasons, but often because they’re spooked. Nevermind that a coyote just scampered past; forget the rattler heard in the distance of a rocky desert canyon. It was the illegal firework her brother set off and her inability to hold the reigns and think about sex while her horse made sudden startled kicks. The fall went like this: Terrence Rad Star kicked his hind legs like a scared jackrabbit. Carol, thinking about music and sex, slipped sideways and was eventually catapulted. Everyone knows you have to grab a horse with your legs. Carol didn’t. And the next thing she knew, she shot to the edge of a dry riverbed, her long blonde hair in an instant tangle as she hit where dirt meets sand. Twenty years later Carol still thinks about that fall; not because of the trauma—falling is part of horseback riding—but because two days later she did indeed sleep with Antonio.

While Lucy Corin described the exercise and analyzed a few stories written by folks in the workshop, Haslam was mostly quiet. He folded his arms, seemed distant though I know he was listening. He mentioned lunch in a few jokes. But there were a few uncomfortable moments of silence. The talk mostly focused on brevity, revisions and having an ear for the storytellers that surround us. Corin read through a few short pieces to illuminate her point.

Haslam did say at one moment, “Writing a novel is a painful experience.”

I couldn’t agree with him more. I’m sure birth is both painful and beautiful. Sorry ladies, writing a novel is the closest I can get to the real thing. Writing a book for me is tough as heck to get out, but the end result is beautiful whether others agree or not.

I have to say Corin seemed agitated at times during the fiction workshop, using a teaching tactic of ignoring comments from some of the students when the comments didn’t seem to apply. At one point Haslam seemed to pick up on her method of ignoring some of the attendees. When she was confronted with questions she didn’t want to answer, Haslam spoke up and answered, finally joining the conversation, and doing so elegantly.

Although the workshop had its interesting moments of Haslam saving Corin, I looked more forward to the day’s panel discussions that would speak in more of a Central Valley tone, with themes that would help me to further understand what it is I do from the southern end of the San Joaquin.



Right afterwards I interviewed Haslam for the Buck City podcast. I wondered if he even remembered me. Likely not. I told him we met at a library in Oildale. If he was never able to open old computer files then surely he wouldn’t remember me. The Citrus Girl for a Bakersfield tale is far more memorable than I ever could be… there’s nothing like it... No California literary tales that I know of from the Southern Central Valley that talk of wandering youth, Bakersfield rock music, agriculture and a Central Valley city in a romanticized counterculture tale… whereas Haslam’s literature describes the Okie suburbs, my stories enter the heart of the city (The Citrus Girl, Lords: Part One, Cubicles) and captures more of a diverse multi-cultural experience (Thick White Crust, Pinay) that illuminates the beautiful and dark beating heart of the Southern San Joaquin Valley.

Haslam and I spoke briefly of the death of Buck Owens, of the Crystal Palace Theatre. I asked if he ever met Buck. He said, “No, but I could have.” Such information tells me Kathryn Burke’s forthcoming Noveltown book, Act Naturally will be a valuable asset to country music and Okie history as it is based on oral interviews with now deceased Buck Owens and Bill Woods, as well as interviews with many others from the old Bakersfield Sound who are still living.

Throughout the day I did several interviews: Gerald Haslam (originally from Bakersfield), Tim Z. Hernandez (he recites a poem), documentary filmmaker and writer Satsuki Ina, Malcolm Margolin, Franz Weinschenk (Valley Public Radio), Karen Maj (Fresno Bookmobile), Matildakay, and Cindy Wathen. You’ll have to keep checking in on the Buck City Podcast for episode 34, ‘Valley Writers Unite!’ to hear great interviews with Central Valley literary writers and supporters.


Students read their original works at the conference.
I was impressed...!




CSU Fresno creative writer Jefferson Beavers talked to me about Fresno Famous

Franz Weinschenk of Valley Public Radio gave a stirring talk about the need for an Asian-American novel out of the Central Valley. Interesting since I just tested the waters recently with Pinay, a coming of age short story of ethnic dualism about a Chinese-Filipino girl growing up in Delano, California. The story had a good response from Asian-Americans who were all honored and glad to have a Central Valley Asian story told. I had recently written an article on ethnic dualism for a Chicano magazine out of Bakersfield, so following up with an Asian-American short story was timely. Of course Weinschenk spoke about Hmong controversies. But let’s face it. Central Valley Asians represent a hugely diverse ethnic population with pockets of people representing countries from all over the world: Koreans, Burmese, Hmongs, Sri Lankan, Indian, Filipino, Chinese, Japanese, and so on. Sacramento Bee journalist, Steve Magagnini followed up with a heartfelt talk about covering Hmong ethnic stories, representing a newspaper once known for terrible cross-cultural relations.





The panels were illuminating. Author Cindy Wathen of Yosemite Writers gave a much needed talk about building a literary community with one other panelist in particular I found intriguing: Andy Jones of Dr. Andy’s Poetry Hour on KDVS 90.3 FM at UC Davis. Between he and Cindy Wathen, they mentioned that building literary communities within Central Valley cities is integral to connecting valley literature within the large region that includes Sacramento in the north to Stockton, Merced, Fresno, and dare I say it? Bakersfield to the south.

The panelists ignored Bakersfield, but after representing the city, I believe a great new literary presence is beginning to grow out of the Southern Central Valley and will be noticed: a group that includes literary, theatre folk, musicians and filmmakers. Andy Jones mentioned that the Beat community’s success came out of the relationship built between music and literature. Well that’s nlbelardes.com isn’t it? The success of 'Paperback Writer' as a blog did not spawn out of anything other than a novelist within the music scene, writing about it, networking within it, and illuminating music, fine arts, theatre, and literature.

The renaissance in Central Valley literature just might be spawning out of the one city that made the trek up to cover the Great Valley Books Writers Conference. Why not? Already there are websites that have joined in the action. Bakotopia.com, theatreaddict.com (claims to be the nlbelardes.com of local theatre) and countless Bakersfield band sites (and band sites around the country and world) have cross-linked to nlbelardes.com to share in reading about goings on through a literary perspective in the small curve of the Southern San Joaquin. Last counted: about 200 crosslinks.



In final, famed poet Juan Felipe Herrera gave an interactive poem that stirred the audience and I went and had dinner with a gracious group of Central Valley and non-Central Valley people who all seemed for at least a day, to begin to grow a vision of valley literature that can begin to spawn a renaissance in literature from the south to the north and beyond…

It’s no coincidence the new Noveltown site was launched the same day as the conference.


The hands of author/farmer David Mas Masumoto holding his own great
work of art...

This entry was posted by N.L. Belardes, on Tuesday, April 18, 2006. You can leave your response.