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Blog

A Novel Way to Write a History Book

July 7, 2015 By Annis Cassells

Judy Salamacha
Judy Salamacha
Sandra Mittelsteadt
Sandra Mittelsteadt

Writers of Kern is proud to present Judy Salamacha and Sandra Mittelsteadt, authors of Colonel Baker’s Field: An American Pioneer Story.

Salamacha and  Mittelsteadt’s presentation, “A Novel Way to Write a History Book,” will give writers, history buffs, and genealogists insights into adapting history to creative non-fiction by weaving family lore into documented fiction. Attendees will also glean tips on where to research facts and how to manage writing as a team.

“History is often more exciting than fiction, but fails to engage the reader when it is written like a textbook,” says Salamacha. “The facts are recorded, but with no dialogue and little description.” Colonel Thomas Baker’s great-great grandson invited Salamacha and Mittelsteadt to use his lifetime of research to write the official biography of his ancestor. After talking with them, he agreed to allow them to fictionalize portions of the story where there were gaps in the research and joined the collaboration.

Salamacha, a native of Bakersfield, and Mittelsteadt, a transplant from the mid-west and Saudi Arabia, are former teachers of English as well as writers. For the past five years, Salamacha directed the Central Coast Writers Conference at Cuesta College. She currently writes for several newspapers on the Central Coast. Mittelsteadt is president of her company, Zayn Consulting, specializing in connecting businesses to education through career academy development and project-based integrated learning. Colonel Baker’s Field is their first book as a team.

Guests are invited and welcome at Writers of Kern monthly meetings. For meeting location, time, and cost, please click here.

Fire of Love

April 30, 2015 By Guest

First we met
And the fire was ignited
Then we had a flaming affair
Which turned into love
But over time the fire burned lower
And we lost the hot spark of our love
The fire was dying, but you didn’t notice
And so — time without the flame of love
Can not last
So as the fire dies
So too does our love
Only embers remain
But if you add wood and blow on the embers
Maybe you can rekindle the fire
That burned so hot and brightly for us
Maybe you can rekindle our love lost

—Kelsie Gates

Kelsie Gates
Kelsie Gates

My Everest

April 29, 2015 By Guest

shaking stacks of mountains
exhume sleeping
secrets

I am small.
I am afraid.
I want to live another day.

my backstreet to bliss
now crippled
agitated
chunked

Why do I run to that dangerous place?

Secrets smolder like last night’s campfire.

—Anke Hodenpijl

Anke Hodenpijl
Anke Hodenpijl

First Taste

April 28, 2015 By Annis Cassells

The Cassells cellar
earthen-floored
must-scented
raven-aired

Grandma Annie Casssells
and ten-year-old me,
heave worn wooden doors

throw daylight underground
pick our way down brick slab steps
stand still
let our eyes adjust

She leads
Bound for wooden plank shelves
Jammed against the far wall.

She reaches
For a dusty jug
amongst canned pickles, peaches, beans

She pours
a half-pint jelly jar one-quarter full
pronounces “grape juice”

She savors
A long dark liquid sip
“Ahhhhh”

She passes
the almost-empty jar
to me

She cautions
“Just a little now.
It makes you feel all warm inside.”

She stretches
her eager knobby fingers for the rest
as the jar leaves my lips.

—Annis Cassells

Annis Cassells
Annis Cassells

Fremont Peak

April 27, 2015 By Guest

I once lived at the top of a mountain
Above the fog which billowed and shifted beneath my feet
Like the gently lapping waves of a great, white sea.
Other peaks poked through that vast ocean –
Isolated islands.
And the sky above was very clear and bright.

Unseen people below me looked up
And saw nothing but a flat, grey ceiling –
A fitting cover for a dreary world
Full of busy-ness and duty and
Feet planted firmly on the ground.
And beneath that grey, the California seasons
Pass by unnoticed in monotonous sameness.

But on the mountaintop, I watched the cycle of life –
The sight of the first glowing, translucent leaves of spring.
The hot, heavy scent of sage and dusty summer oak.
The whisperings and rustling of dying leaves.
And the delicate caress of the first snowflake on my cheek.

Every season
I climbed to the highest peak
And sat alone above the world
Silent and at peace.

—Joan Kerr

Joan Kerr
Joan Kerr
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