On my first songwriting retreat to Tag Hollow, I was stumped. Weary from years of touring and being bogged down in administrating an indie music career, I felt disconnected from my creativity. I spent a couple days at Gleneyrie sitting with a guitar, staring at a blank screen. Panic began to set in. I feared I was a dried up well, the best songs I had were already written, and there were no more songs in me. Most writers feel this way at some point, or if we're being honest, every hour or so. I texted David "Well, it's been a great run. Four records, hundreds of songs. But apparently I don't write songs anymore." He replied: "You always say that. Keep trying." UNHELPFUL, I thought. Humph, rude.
I decided a change of scenery might help. I loaded up my guitar and dulcimer, and headed down to the swimming hole below the dam. It was almost dusk. Perched on top of a picnic table, I started to strum. The cicadas sang a tune. "Write what you know," I recalled the writers' adage. As I sat there thinking about my story, I marveled at the orchestration of events that had led me to that place in time. Never in a million years did I think I would end up living back in Oklahoma. You never know where whole-hearted living will lead you. Sometimes it even takes you back to where you started from and gives you the chance to see it with new eyes. As I strummed, the Oklahoma sunset started showing off in a way that words can't do justice, and I started humming this tune. Apparently I had more songs to write after all. Here's Red Dirt Roads.