I’ve been playing guitar a long time.
Not well.
Not fast.
Not on a stage.
Just… a long time.
If I’m honest, I’m still an elementary guitar player. I know my open chords. I can keep a rhythm. And if someone passes me a guitar at a campfire, I can usually find my way to something recognizable. That’s always been the goal for me — recognizable.
I never wanted to be Jimi Hendrix. I never wanted to shred. I never wanted to impress anyone. I just wanted to be able to pick up a guitar and play something that feels like a song.
Somewhere along the way, that became enough.
If you’ve played guitar for any amount of time, you know what comes next — the plateaus. Long stretches where nothing seems to improve. You play the same progressions. Your fingers go where they’ve always gone. You can hear what you want to play, but you can’t quite get there.
Those plateaus can make you feel stuck. Or worse, like maybe you’re just not built for this.
What I’ve learned is that plateaus aren’t failure. They’re part of the deal. Most of guitar life happens right there in the middle — not climbing, not quitting, just playing. Sometimes the win is simply not putting the guitar down.
There’s a moment that never gets old for me. You start playing something and someone says, “Oh yeah… I know that one.” Not because it’s perfect. Not because it’s impressive. Just because it lands.
That’s the magic.
A steady strum. A familiar progression. A song that connects, even if it’s rough around the edges. The older I get, the more I realize how underrated that kind of playing really is.
And then there’s singing while playing — something I’ve always struggled with. My hands want to do one thing, my voice wants to do another, and my brain can’t keep both jobs straight. The rhythm slips. The lyrics disappear. Sometimes it works. Most times it doesn’t.
I’ve stopped treating that like a personal failure. Singing while playing is hard. It’s a real skill. And if you can do it smoothly, that’s something earned — not something everyone is supposed to be able to do.
Some of my favorite guitar moments were never planned or performed. They happened at campsites, on porches, in living rooms, late at night when nobody was trying to be good. A guitar leaning against a cooler. Someone asking, “You play?” And you just try to give them something.
Those moments count.
The guitar doesn’t care if you’re on a stage or sitting by a fire. It doesn’t care how advanced you are. It only cares that you keep picking it up.
If there’s one rule that matters, it’s this: don’t stop playing. Not because you’re improving every week. Not because you’re trying to become someone else. Just because the guitar became part of how you live, how you travel, how you slow things down.
You don’t have to be great.
You don’t have to be advanced.
You just have to keep going.
And honestly, that’s what Six‑String Travels is about. Not chasing perfection. Not performing for anyone. Just moving through real places, letting the road and the music shape the experience, and paying attention to the moments that stay with you — campsites, porches, quiet rooms, anywhere life slows down enough to listen. Even if no one reads a single word of this, I’ll still do it. Because this isn’t about attention. It’s about holding onto a small, honest part of myself, one recognizable song at a time.