Whenever I sit down to write a song with a young, new songwriter, one who has the youth and vitality to live, breath, and sleep the troubadour’s life (I’ve long given up on racing the moon for thrills), I start with the belief that the person sitting in front of me has something to say and a way of saying it that is unlike anyone else. I believe that that person has the chords, the melodies, the stories, the rhythms, and the personality to charm millions of people into buying their album so that it can be listened to over and over again.

I envision the artist having a long career and closing their show out every night with the song we are getting ready to write.

It then becomes my job to create a space where that song can be farmed—or “harvested” according to how well our collaboration goes. If I can gain their trust and their confidence, if I can coax out of them what is unique and universal, then the song we create will begin to open doors that were previously closed.

Yes, we stand to make money, earn awards, and meet our heroes. Yes, we stand to blow a few people away at the Bluebird or in the little rooms all over town where devoted song people never give up on finding that next great song that will make everything make sense again. And, we also stand to gain a new understanding of life—we stand to learn about the human condition by looking through each other’s eyes for a while. Maybe I will see something in a new way. Maybe he (or she) will learn something that will save them precious time in their race for the top.

And maybe, there, in the space that opens up in the room, in the energy that brings acceptance and understanding, we will know (no maybe about it), we will KNOW that we arrived at timelessness—that we have come all of this way, down so many roads, and met at our appointed time to sit for a while in Music City Zen.