Judy Richter

Being in crowds these days, whether large or small, puts me in a schizophrenic state of exuding charm while scrupulously plotting my exit strategy. It wasn’t always like that. In my Hollywood days, being on set was usually a hive of intense activity, with dozens of workers buzzing around on missions known only to them. During my Richter Scale Production days, the events we produced ranged from large corporate conventions to concerts at Red Rocks to two US Olympics, and even a few Inaugural Balls in D.C. There were lots of people, lots of stress, and no respite until the last road case had been rolled onto the last truck. 

So, Killer Nashville this year was an intimate writers conference set in the honky-tonk town of Nashville, not that I made it out to Broadway this time. For me, it was a two-day travel excursion to attend a two-day conference, followed by a twenty-hour marathon of cabs, planes, and a private car service to get home. It was all worth it, if for nothing else than to pay homage to an organization that honored me with a Judges’ Top Pick award for my debut novel, Pura Vida the Hard Way. 

But there was so much more. I connected with old friends and made some new ones as well. Serious writing is a seriously isolating endeavor. Connecting with like-minded masochists is like hiking through the jungle for two miles to get to that spectacular waterfall that no one knows about. A long sip of water and a plunge into the refreshing pool is a rarified experience. Not all encounters at the conference were endowed with sunshine and roses, however, much like life in general, I suppose. The trend toward hard-boiled, male-dominated stories fraught with cuss words, blood and guts, and a lot of tits and ass is still thriving. This too shall pass, they say.

Hopefully, the same can be said of the toxic energy in the States that I experienced during my brief but intense travels through Houston to Nashville and back again. Businesses are woefully understaffed and their workers underpaid, creating an angry and resentful atmosphere that seeps into the general public. In Nashville, one local told me that it’s because the “Darkies” aren’t showing up for work. She clarified her statement by saying, “Don’t get me wrong, I’m a supporter.” My head was reeling as I excused myself for a refill of Moonshine. 

I’m so happy to be home, reveling in my own personal paradise with K and the pups. As I sift through the editorial notes I received at the conference, I’m grateful for some and feel empowered to toss others. It is my book, after all, and the story will be told my way. Pura Vida!