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The Scribe Feburary 2017






Copyright February 2017 St. Louis Writers Guild – All rights reserved



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“Bevo Hill Restaurant, 1907” from the Missouri Historical Museum.

Cover design by Brad R. Cook


Editorial Staff

Lauren Miller

Managing Editor


T. W. Fendley

Associate Editor


Brad R. Cook

Cover Designer


Jennifer Stolzer

Staff Writer


Melanie Koleini

Staff Writer


Steven Langhorst




The Scribe is published monthly digitally by the Saint Louis Writers Guild with an annual print issue. The editorial staff invites Guild members to submit original submissions of poetry, short stories, or articles about writing (4,000 words or less) for publication in this magazine. The Scribe is promoted to more than 1,000 people on our mailing list. Submissions should be sent by the first of each month to [email protected] -- put SCRIBE in the subject line.


Also, if you are interested in joining the editorial staff as a writer, please contact [email protected] -- put SCRIBE in the subject line.


Our website is at http://www.stlwritersguild.org/.





[In this issue
**]February 2017


From the President’s Desk: The Upcoming Year for St. Louis Writers Guild by David Alan Lucas



Laid Low by Jeff Neilsen

“Laidlow Vrammit always thought of himself as a despicable person.”



Workshops for Writers – Pulp Fiction: More than a Tarantino Movie! More than a Genre! by Jennifer Stolzer



Poetry Calendar

A Quick Guide to St. Louis Writers Guild Events


[*From the President’s Desk: The Upcoming Year for St. Louis Writers Guild]

By David Alan Lucas



January is here, the month that marks so many changes and so many resolutions for people to make changes, improve their work, or rededicate themselves to their art. For St. Louis Writers Guild, this month is marking many events that will happen this year:

p<>{color:#000;}. We have changed our workshop venue to The Lodge Des Peres, where we will continue to meet the first Saturday of the month (except when holidays interfere and we change the weekend to accommodate).

p<>{color:#000;}. We will be looking for a temporary location to hold our open mic nights when the Kirkwood Amtrak Station begins to renovate its lobby.

p<>{color:#000;}. April 1 will open the annual Deane Wagner Poetry Contest.

p<>{color:#000;}. The Gateway to Publishing Writers Conference and Readers Convention will occur June 16-18 at the Renaissance Hotel by the St. Louis Lambert Airport.

p<>{color:#000;}. August 1 will open the annual Young Writers Award contest.

p<>{color:#000;}. October 1 will open the annual short story contest

May the start of this new year bring all of you success in your writing.



*This article was originally intended, as you might have guessed, for the January 2017 issue of The Scribe. As it was unfortunately unavailable at the time we went to print (but still contains valuable information/dates regarding upcoming events), it has been posted in its entirety for the February issue. We apologize for any confusion this may have been to our readers.

Laid Low

By Jeff Neilsen


Laidlow Vrammit always thought of himself as a despicable person. He had been lying, cheating, and stealing for as long as he could remember. He had no recollection of the last time he had gotten anything by legitimate means. It was just his way. Everybody wanted something for nothing. That was what drove the whole business of running con games. An intended victim was called a mark. As soon as they got the idea that an amount of unearned and undeserved cash was coming their way, they lost sight of what was really happening. Better than sleight of hand, using people’s own greed and avarice against them was easy. At least it came easy to Laidlow.

At birth, Laidlow was named Ledlowe Garth Vrammit. This was in honor of his wealthy spinster great aunt, Penelope Ledlowe. The long-standing tradition was that a family bestowed the name of an accomplished or particularly beloved relative on a child as a way of honoring that individual. The hope in this case was that bestowing the name upon him would lead to an inheritance. It did not. She gave all her money to a stray cat shelter.

One of the first things Laidlow had learned was hat the family name was pronounced “Vrammit. Like dammit.” He had heard his father Lemuell correct people so many times that he first thought his name was Vrammitlikedammit. A few of his father’s sharp, well placed slaps cured him of that delusion. Laidlow learned many things from his father that way. Gentility and an inclination toward kindness were the things he learned from his mother. Politeness at all times was a way of currying her favor. It was a means of survival with his father.

Aside from learning how to stay just beyond his father’s reach, Laidlow learned to think of himself as a worthless child. He was told he was no good, year after year. The impossibility of ever amounting to anything worthwhile was also drummed into him. The relentless reminders of the pointless nature of his existence was only partly offset by the careful teaching of his mother. His childhood had been a time of learning school skills and manners, contrasted with the knowledge that neither would ever do him any good.

Laidlow’s mother had also taught him the finer points of dress. “Clean-shaven, and pressed; neatly dressed” was Mother’s mantra that floated through his head all the time. Laidlow learned early to use the skill of always being presentable. Along with politeness, it seemed to help him get better grades in school.

When school ended, Laidlow packed his suitcase and beat it the hell out of his hometown of Gum Tree, Kentucky. The only job prospect at all was working at the sawmill. His father worked there. Laidlow figured he had seen all of his father he ever wanted to, so that was out of the question. He said goodbye to his mother on a Monday after his father had gone to work. He knew his father would not be surprised by his no-account son running off. He also knew his mother was safe from any hostility raised by the issue. If Laidlow’s father had one redeeming quality, it was that he adored his wife. He would not raise a hand to her.

The first thing Laidlow did was to erase any connection with the name Ledlowe. He would be Laidlow from now on. It was his way of making a fresh start. He thought it was a reasonably clever change of his name. He thought perhaps it would engender some subconscious sense of sympathy for a person who had been ‘laid low’ by life’s vicissitudes. Most people had experienced some trouble in their lives, and felt some connection with other troubled souls. Misery loving company, and all that claptrap. Laidlow really wanted to see what he could make of that, what it was worth. His evolution into a conman had begun.




The money in Laidlow’s pocket came from a scam he had just run. While on a train from Louisville, he ran into an affable fellow and struck up a conversation. In no time whatsoever, he sold the poor fool a lottery ticket with the winning numbers, the correct date and month, but with a slight alteration in the printing of the year that just would not pass inspection by the state lottery agency. Laidlow always kept some lottery tickets on hand, just to drum up ready cash. In this instance, it was his turn to leave the train early, since the mark was riding all the way to Nashville. He had paid the porter to keep his bag on the platform, just so he could get it on a ‘trip to the men’s room,’ and leave the train unseen.

Laidlow’s ready cash was the ‘bankroll’ for a back room poker game that roped in a good number of the town’s nabobs. He showed the local barkeep his wad of bills – fake, through and through – just to get the back room of the bar open for the game. His powers of persuasion began with being unusually neat and clean. People found it harder to distrust someone who was neatly dressed, and appeared to be clean. Mother’s teaching put to good use. He promised the barkeep half the profits. That was all the juice he needed to get the ball rolling. Greed took over from there. Once he had a few real dollars, he would be able to get to the real game.

The key to backroom games was liquor, and lots of it. Keep the saps juiced up, and you could do nearly anything. He’d spotted a dealer he knew at the whistle-stop train station. Nicknamed Speedy Gonzales, nobody knew his real name. He was up on every con Laidlow could run in a small town. Any kind of deal that a scam required, Speedy could do. Nobody ever caught him. He was just too good. Men like Laidlow and Speedy traveled alone. They worked con games on an as-come-by basis. Once you had worked a con with another man, or woman, the bond of trust – as far as it went – was formed. You knew who you could trust to split the ‘take’ from a con evenly.

Speedy had a real good ‘radar’ for when it was bug-out time. The signs were always set for bugging out right from the start of every con, game, or scam. Not knowing when the jig was up was the surest way to get pegged. Staying out of the way of discovery, and the law, was just staying alive. You had to be free of pursuers just in case you saw an opportunity for a quick pick-up: a deal done in passing, or on the run.

The cards ultimately served as a distraction for the real money making. The con he had used in the last town was “Washing the Judge.” Why it was called that, Laidlow did not know. It involved getting a public official, like the sheriff or judge to participate in cheating another town citizen. The deal usually paid the official handsomely, but was followed by the imminent threat of discovery by the ‘victim’ or another town citizen. Convincing the poor sap he was about to be discovered was the threat. Protecting the sterling reputation of the town official was the leverage used against them.

Taking the proceeds of the scam, and all the other money involved, in order to protect the reputation of the town official was the real point of the whole con. Agreeing to meet at a later time to ‘settle up’ was called ‘cooling the mark,’and served to set up the getaway.

The car he was driving was won in the card game. In usual fashion, as soon as he took possession of the proceeds of the con, he took the car and got the heck out of that little town. He had arranged with Speedy that he could keep whatever he gleaned out of dealing the cards. How he would separate himself from the game was up to him. He would be gone before anyone knew he was missing, along with their cash. Everything else would go to Laidlow. They would each go their own way. The next town, or the one after, would provide some poor sap for draining for each of them. Laidlow would sell the car as soon as he could, giving some unsuspecting sap the ‘deal of a lifetime,’ and a phony title, of course.




Laidlow was driving from Byrdstown to Livingston, his next stop. He had already passed through Midway, and the Hollow Lake area. He was almost to Monroe. The roads were in great shape. The weather had been clear and dry for several days. His car was running perfectly, a real honey. It burned up a lot of his cash, since it was a real showboat of ostentation. Beggars can’t be choosers, or so the saying goes. Neither can con artists. If you took a car in a game, you drove it. You used it whatever way you could to keep ‘the game’ going. The game was his life of lying, cheating, and stealing, of course. Laidlow thought of it all as a game. One he played very well indeed.

The late afternoon sun was nearly down to the horizon. Each trip down into a hollow was just a little darker than the previous one. Laidlow noticed a few cars behind him with their headlights on already. Not liking the idea that anyone might be following him, he turned off on a gravel road to let the traffic behind him pass. He would go a short distance, then turn around if no one followed. He typically did this several times a day. Being suspicious wasted a lot of time, but you either survived, or you didn’t.

Before he got to a turn-around, Laidlow was passed by a car headed in the other direction. It seemed to be going way faster than you would expect. Some folks were always in a hurry. A bit farther up the road, he spotted a driveway. He turned into it so he could quickly turn back to the highway. Before he could throw the shift lever into reverse, Laidlow saw a column of smoke ahead, down the driveway. The peak of a roof was the source. It was the roof of a farmhouse.

Having grown up in a small town, Laidlow knew fires were usually devastating on farms. Rural fire protection systems being what they are, most farmstead fires self-extinguish: burn themselves out. The fire departments job was to wet down the smoldering remains. It served as excitement for the firefighters. It gave them stories to tell. Laidlow rolled the car down the narrow drive toward the house.

Once there, he saw no one around. The house was closed, no cars. It was far enough from the barn and animal pens that there was no danger of the fire spreading. Laidlow was just about to put the car in reverse when he heard it. At first he thought it might be a cat. After a second or two, there was no doubt. Not a cat. A baby. The sound of a crying baby was coming from the house.

Some lives come to rest on the fulcrum of a single choice. So it was for Laidlow Vrammit. Without hesitating, he emerged from the beast of a car and shot up the remainder of the driveway on foot. He hadn’t even turned the ignition off, so great was his haste. It wasn’t like him to leave a car running, wasting gas. It wasn’t like him to run into a burning house either, but he did that, too.

It took all of about a minute to search the bedrooms, find the baby, scoop it up, and re-emerge from the house coughing and spitting, his face lined with soot. The wee one was wailing its head off. Laidlow made it back to the car. He retrieved his sport coat from the back seat, wrapped the baby in it, and held it close. To his surprise, he could hear sirens approaching. Still a long way off, but coming this way.



The trial of Bull Pike and Lum Dully did not take very long at all. Three days had been the bare minimum. Court proceedings simply could not be made to go any faster. The State of Tennessee vs. Pendelton Pike, and Lumbeton Dully was an exercise to demonstrate how the courts worked. The beneficiaries of the demonstration were the good citizens of Overton County, Tennessee. For the most part they couldn’t care less about what happened at the county courthouse in Livingston. Unless, of course, it affected them. This was different: a kidnap case, right here in Livingston.

The evidence against the two defendants was so overwhelming, and compelling, that it was unusual they had entered ‘Not Guilty’ pleas. The state prosecutor had kept the case here in town because he knew it would be a brief affair, and not burdensome to the county court budget. The public defender had done what he had to on his clients’ behalf, but they were still found guilty. They were going away for a long time. Not forever, but their parents would likely be dead, and everyone else would have forgotten them.

The whole thing had been like a dream to Laidlow. The day of the fire, he was found in front of the farmhouse, clutching the baby in his arms. The young woman who emerged from the sheriff’s patrol car had nearly bowled him over, racing up the terraced lawn and snatching the baby from his grasp. Once she discovered her child was apparently unharmed, she looked up at Laidlow with wonder, and suspicion, in her eyes.

Laidlow quite affably explained to the young mother -- quickly joined by the sheriff -- how he had seen the smoke from the road and turned up the drive to investigate. Even though he was covered from head to toe with smoke-soot, he was still neatly dressed. And he still was Laidlow Vrammit. He had decided to grow a mustache, for a periodic appearance change. His upper lip was a scruffy mess, but the rest of him still looked non-threatening. The easy way of talking he had did most of the persuading.

Ultimately, the absence of contrary evidence, and the tidal wave of gratitude from the young mother, served to settle the issue. The next thing that happened was the arrival of the fire department. The sheriff had called them from his car on the way up Highway 111 from Livingston. That courageous band actually had been all together in town when the alarm came in and arrived promptly.

More timely luck for the family that owned the farm.

It did not take long to find out the car that had raced past Laidlow on the gravel road was occupied by the two losers, Bull Pike and Lum Dully. As the story unwound, Laidlow found out those two could be counted on for trouble. Their range covered not just Overton County, but several of the adjoining counties as well. Apparently they were no-good dumb asses all over.

The other occupant of the car had been the young mother of the baby, Veronica Trumaine. The two idiots had just kidnapped Veronica and were in the process of absconding when they passed Laidlow. The lame-brain plan the pair had hatched involved an escape route that not only did not avoid populated areas, but went directly through Livingston. The pair ran a red light – one of the few in town – right in front of the sheriff. The whole thing could not have lasted more than fifteen minutes.

As the two were so quickly caught, Veronica and the Sheriff had raced back to the farmhouse, where the baby had been left behind. As they neared the house and saw smoke rising, they feared the worst. To their relief, Laidlow was there, baby safe in his arms.

There is more to the story than bad luck for the two hair-brained criminals, and good luck for the young mother. Veronica Trumaine turned out to be the wife of Sebastian Trumaine, eldest son of one of the wealthiest families in the entire state. Veronica herself was no slouch in this regard either. Her family was very wealthy, also. Since money loves money, they ended up married.

The young couple sought a simple beginning for their little family. They decided to live on a farm, rather than in town. Sebastian worked for his father’s company and drove a bit farther to work each day because of their choice. They assumed there would be time for all the trappings of wealth in their lives whenever they needed.

They were coal mine people, not miners, but mine owners. Their respective families were responsible for the support of the economy for a large portion of the state. In contrast to other mine operators, they tried to ensure that work in their mines was good for the miners, as well as good for themselves. Excellent safety records had led to there being generations of people who felt beholden to the families that owned the mines.

The other important detail of the story was that the baby that Laidlow had so fortuitously saved from the smoke-filled farmhouse was the first grandchild on both sides of the family. Baby Edwin Trumaine was expected to be the scion of a new, larger economic engine for north-central Tennessee. The great hopes of two eminent families rested upon him.

So it was that Laidlow Vrammit found himself living in a guest house on the estate of one of the wealthiest families in the entire state of Tennessee. The Trumaines, as a group, had descended on him and fussed and cajoled him into accepting their gratitude. In his wildest dreams, Laidlow had never imagined himself in such surroundings. Hundreds of acres of manicured lawns and gardens were there for him to enjoy every day.

Any of his meals, save supper, could be taken anywhere on the grounds. The slightest suggestion to the estate staff brought a flurry of activity resulting in what he wanted. It all seemed a bit magical. The evening meal with the family members was usually followed by some discussion of Laidlow’s good deed. There was often a new member of the very large Trumaine family to meet and to receive thanks from. This was almost always followed by some exotic entertainment or other.

Each night, Laidlow retired to the most comfortable bed he had ever slept on, in the largest bedroom he could have imagined. He had even managed a passing relationship with one of the young housekeeping girls. He hadn’t slept alone every night. He wondered what the bedrooms in the main house might be like. He had not inquired out of a desire to not seem pushy or intrusive.

In the two months he had been on the estate, he had participated in numerous recreational activities with various members of the Trumaine family. He had fished for trout in a private stream and for bass in a private lake. He had hunted pheasant, grouse, and quail on the grounds with Sebastian and his father. Golf and tennis were available, as was someone to play against at any time. There even was a bowling alley and a shooting range in the basement of the main house.

The estate was forty-five miles out of town, and therefore quietly nestled into the countryside. The only noise was the departure and return of the helicopter from the landing pad nearly every day. The elder Mr. Trumaine traveled this way to oversee his business interests. Other than that, the place was the perfect idyllic paradise.

All this, and Laidlow felt something was wrong. At first he did not realize that he even felt this way. He was distracted by the lifestyle that he had been introduced to. Over a period of time he began to feel an emptiness inside of himself. Day after day, he felt a little more out of place. Day by day, he began to realize that no matter how perfect things were here, they were not what he wanted.

One thing that had begun to honestly bother Laidlow was the Trumaine family’s belief in him as an honest, upstanding member of society. At first, it was just another con, having people believe in him. The difficulty arose in the persistent sincerity of it all. These were a class of people Laidlow had never met. They didn’t want something for nothing. They had expectations that their hard work would result in reward, almost without fail. Not only was this contrary to Laidlow’s upbringing, it ran counter to his appreciation of himself. The life he had made for himself, lying, cheating and stealing, was just that, his life.

He came to the decision to leave almost as readily as he had come to the decision to run into the burning farmhouse. Bugging out was a thing he new well. He knew how and when best to do it. As a matter of course, he had familiarized himself with the routines of the staff and groundskeeping crew. Being as far as they were from everywhere, there really wasn’t much in the way of security.

Around one in the morning, he picked up his suitcase and, simply walked off the grounds of the estate. He still had the money from the last con he had run. The Trumaines had not provided a single opportunity for him to spend any of in two months. With his sport coat over his shoulder, and small suitcase in hand, Laidlow Vrammit returned to his life.


About the Author

Jeff Neilsen is a life-long St. Louisan, and avid reader. He is retired from a very full career in Nurse Anesthesia, chiefly at Washington University School of Medicine, in St. Louis. He is seeking his first publishing credit outside of technical medical writing. He currently has a book of short stories and a pair of novels in preparation.

Workshops for Writers – Pulp Fiction: More than a Tarantino Movie! More than a Genre!

By Jennifer Stolzer


With twelve years writing professionally, Van Allen Plexico is a maestro of science fiction, historical fiction, fantasy, and super heroes – topics and genres many refer to as pulp fiction. Pulp is sometimes defined as “stories about sensational topics,” or by the thin, inexpensive paper the books were printed on in early days of popular media. Plexico, instead, defines pulp as a style. “It’s a method. An approach to writing any kind of thing.”

Pulp fiction began at the end of the 1800s when print media was starting to boom. Two different kinds of fiction magazines appeared on newsstands. The “slicks” were printed on nice, glossy paper designed to last for long time. Authors published in the slicks had goals of literary greatness.

The “pulps,” by contrast, published writers who were not considered literary enough to make it in the slicks. The pulp paper was created chemically by mashing up tree pulp and pressing it into sheets. They featured the introduction of franchise series such as Conan the Barbarian, John Carter of Mars, Doc Savage, and other now famous intellectual properties.

“The great irony is that barely anyone remembers the slicks writers nowadays,” Plexico said. “Pulp shaped and influenced everything that is around today.”

Plexico started writing pulp fiction with superhero stories, but the strategy of “pulp” writing can be applied to any genre such as action-adventure, men’s adventure, horror, western, mystery, crime fiction, sci-fi, pirates, military, even romance.

“Pulp is a style that emphasizes strong, forceful action, colorful characters, and pacing. Especially pacing,” he said. Readers familiar with Conan the Barbarian by Robert E. Howard, the Cthulhu mythos by H. P. Lovecraft, and Tarzan by Edgar Rice Burroughs know how rapid pace and persistent action surmount philosophy and introspection. A good example of modern pulp stories is the Indiana Jones series.

In addition to the speed and pace of individual stories was the speed of the pulp writers’ output. “You can write for quality and be very slow, or you can write for quantity and be very fast,” Plexico explained. “Some people can do both.” The creator of Doc Savage, Lester Dent, was known to have twelve typewriters on a long table with twelve different stories he worked on simultaneously. He was able to do this by way of a pulp-writing formula, which he lectured on later in life. Such a formula is more evidence for the quantity-over-quality argument, because while using it creates a certain degree of repetition, it did not impact Dent’s readership because it created more adventures for characters audiences loved.

“The idea of pulp is to be fun,” Plexico said. Fun, easily consumable media is what separated pulps from slicks from the very beginning.

As time and media progressed, comic books and television ushered the end of the pulp industry in its original form. By the 1950s, the magazines were gone, but the characters and ideas presented in the pulp style persisted until 2005 when “New Pulp” emerged. New Pulp uses the same tropes and ideas as the old style, but takes advantage of modern technology to distribute it.

Back in the magazine era, pulp paper was the cheapest and easiest way to sell fiction to the masses. The rise of the ebook and print-on-demand services such as Amazon’s CreateSpace in the 2000s opened the world of publishing and distribution to small press publishers and individual authors. Paperback books of big-house quality became available in runs as small as individual books. Prior to 2003, self publishers were largely reliant on vanity presses, which require a large up-front purchase of books in bulk. With print-on-demand small press and self-publishing, publishers were able to put as much quality into a book as required, and distribute it to the world. Every book printed is one a reader paid for and ordered, without the up-front cost, book waste, or storage.

Market is part of the new strategy as well. “There’s a great bit in the Howard Stern movie where he’s arguing with the NBC programming guy,” Plexico recalled. “In the film, NBC says ‘We don’t narrowcast, we broadcast.’ When you’re a big publisher you’re broadcasting. When you narrowcast, 95 percent of the people are going to ignore you, but the 5 percent left are going to be loyal and excited.” Pulp writers rarely if ever need to be represented by an agent, so this gives them opportunity to target niche publishers and magazines where readers looking for adventure, mystery, etc., can find the works and writers catering to their specific interests.

So how does one write pulp for modern audiences? “It’s not about speed anymore,” Plexico said. “It’s about quality, but everything helps you go faster. The focus needs to be on action, on pacing, on keeping people interested. Put blood in your fight! Look to all kinds of inspiration from mythology to existing characters. Think about what you like to read and what you think makes it fun.”

Length requirements have also changed. In the days of pulp magazines, word count was limited at a specific 15,000 words. Instructions from the editor and feedback from readers directed the story issue-to-issue like a soap opera.

“There’s a lot more freedom in New Pulp,” Plexico said. “A lot of New Pulp today wants to emulate the old pulp style. Some do still have a word count, [but] these days they tend to do full novels, and if they do an anthology, it tends to be several stories by different authors about the same character.”

Plexico has written for characters such as Sherlock Holmes, and the anthology he edited in Pride of the Mohicans borrows characters from The Last of the Mohicans via stories written by many modern pulp authors. Pride of the Mohicans won Anthology of the Year at the 2015 Pulp Factory Awards at the Windy City Pulp Con in Chicago, IL. Plexico’s science fiction novel Legion III: Kings of Oblivion won Novel of the Year at the 2015 Pulp Factory Awards, which is a great place to find modern pulp writers.

“If you want to know who’s publishing, check the Pulp Factory,” Plexico said. He also suggested Pulpfest, a convention for classic pulp enthusiasts, in addition to Windy City Pulp Con, as well as DelRey Trade Paperbacks and the Pulp Factory’s website, pulpfactory.blogspot.com, for reading and connecting with modern pulp writers.

As for the movie “Pulp Fiction,” Plexico admits. “Quentin Tarantino’s movie doesn’t have a lot to do with actual pulp writing.”

Van Allen Plexico has completed thirteen novels and countless novellas for pulp and nonfiction markets. In addition to writing, he runs “The White Rocket Podcast” featuring interviews with pop culture topics, and “The Wishbone Effect” podcast on Auburn College Football. Plexico also teaches political science and history at Southwestern Illinois College near St. Louis.



Poetry Calendar

For the latest information on poetry events in the St. Louis, MO, area, visit the St. Louis Poetry Center.



Second Friday Notes, second Friday of each month, 7 p.m., at Whole Foods Town & Country, Clayton Road just west of Highway 141


RIVER STYX. Third Mondays, 7:30 p.m., Tavern of Fire Arts, 313 Belt Ave. riverstyx.org/events.


POETRY AT THE POINT, 4th Tuesday of the month, at Focal Point, 2720 Sutton Ave. Read their ezine at http://zestyguitar.com/stlpoetry/poetry-at-the-point/


Sheila Nolan Whalen Reading Series at SLU, 221 N. Grand Ave., Dubourg 409.

Tuesdays at 4 p.m.


CHANCE OPERATIONS on the last Monday of each month at Tavern of the Arts, 313 Belt Ave., just off Pershing, between Union and DeBaliviere. 7:30 p.m. Open mic follows featured poets.


EVERY WEDNESDAY open mic for poetry and music at Stone Spiral Coffee & Curios, 2500 Sutton in Maplewood (2 blocks N. of Manchester). Great food and beverages. Open mic, 8 until around 11 p.m.


GOODY HOUSE, 7 p.m., fourth Thursdays at Art Marketplace, 2028 S. 12th Street. Featured poets.


R_SPACE. Last Saturday of the month, Lenny Smith and friends at 2 p.m.


ST. LOUIS WRITERS GUILD open mic for prose and poetry, second Tuesday of each month, 7 p.m., Kirkwood Train Station, Argonne Drive, just west of Kirkwood Road. Allow time to find parking.


ADDITIONAL OPEN MICS at The Wolf, (every Tuesday), Legacy Books & Café (every Friday), The Historical Crossings (every other Tuesday), Shameless Grounds (Wednesdays at 7), Venice Café (Mondays at 9)

A Quick Guide to St. Louis Writers Guild Events

It’s as easy as





Workshops for Writers

First Saturday of every month (except holiday weekends). 10 a.m. to Noon at The Lodge Des Peres.


[*Station Open Mic]

Second Tuesday of every month

7-9 p.m. at the Kirkwood Amtrak Station


SLWG Authors Series

Third Thursday of every month


Query for “SLWG Authors Series” on YouTube or check the Members’ Room on our website, www.stlwritersguild.org.


*This event will be moving when renovations begin at the Kirkwood Amtrak Station. Keep an eye on our website and Facebook group for details as they become available.




Brad R. Cook, author of the young adult steampunk series, The Iron Chronicles (Treehouse Publishing Group). A former co-publisher and acquisitions editor for Blank Slate Press, he is a member of SCBWI, and currently serves as Historian of St. Louis Writers Guild after three and half years as President. A founding contributor to The Writers’ Lens , a resource blog for writers, he can be heard weekly as a panelist on Write Pack Radio. A cover designer since 2013, he also creates posters, bookmarks, and other marketing materials. Find more @bradrcook on Twitter, Instagram, and tumblr. BradRCook.com




T.W. Fendley is an award-winning author of historical fantasy and science fiction for adults and young adults, including Zero Time (2011) and The Labyrinth of Time (2014). She’s a founding contributor to The Writers’ Lens, a resource blog for writers. Her short stories are available on Kindle and Audible. When she’s not writing, T.W. explores the boundaries of consciousness through remote viewing and shamanism. twfendley.com 







Steven W. Langhorst is a life-long resident of St. Louis with an insatiable hunger for the facts and trivia of St. Louis history. He is a retired elementary school principal who still serves education as a mentor and consultant focusing on leadership. Steven has dabbled in poetry and photography since his youth and still plans to publish a book of poems and photographs as well as a memoir of his years at principal. Besides holding membership in the St. Louis Writers Guild he also proudly holds a membership in the Professional Tour Guides Association of St. Louis. Steven also contributed to the design of the new St. Louis Writers Guild logo.



David Lucas is the President of St. Louis Writers Guild, a published fiction short story author and poet. He has a Master’s Degree in Management from Webster University. For two years, David has been the host and producer of Write Pack Radio (WPR), a podcast with a panel of authors exploring the changing writing industry. In 2016, David decided to take his experience in podcasting and his love for radio dramas and start Winding Trails Media, which will produce podcast audio dramas beginning in the fall of 2016 as well as continuing WPR podcast.


Lauren Miller is the Director of Communications for the St. Louis Writers Guild, and she reviews books quarterly for the Historical Novels Review. She has a fifteen-year background in library science and has over fifty nonfiction reviews and articles in print. Lauren likes to spend her free time discovering new reads, games, period films, and be surrounded by dogs. To read more about Lauren, visit her blog at MidwestMaven.com



Jennifer Stolzer is an author and illustrator living and working in St. Louis, MO. She graduated from Webster University with a degree in digital media and animation and uses this skill set to create bright and engaging characters. In addition to illustrating books for clients, Jennifer writes and illustrates original work, serves as secretary for the St. Louis Writers Guild, and commentates on the weekly writing podcast Write Pack Radio. See more of Jennifer’s work at www.jenniferstolzer.com, as well as Twitter, tumblr, and Facebook.


The Scribe Feburary 2017

For more than a decade, The Scribe has been the mainstay for communicating with members of the St. Louis Writers Guild. It began as a way to showcase the organization and share insights into the publishing world. Back issues give a wonderful record of the Guild. The Scribe is now available to everyone, not just members. It features stories, poems, and essays from our members, as well as information about our events, most of which are open to the public. The February 2017 edition features a message from our Guild President; an original short story by Jeff Neilsen, and coverage of our January workshop, written by Jennifer Stolzer.

  • Author: St. Louis Writers Guild
  • Published: 2017-02-01 16:05:11
  • Words: 6258
The Scribe Feburary 2017 The Scribe Feburary 2017