Distant Frets

It's no secret.  I have been fighting.  In the corner, a black case covered in faux leather sits untouched as the calluses slowly vanish.  There have been a few moments of joy, but they depart immediately if noticed or outwardly acknowledged.  I have spent hours contemplating the plectrum.  I even took the opportunity to play with genuine outlawed tortoiseshell, carefully created from a pre-ban hairbrush.  

I have measured the nut and made very fine adjustments to the bridge.  There is a tiny piece of rolled paper wedged between both "G" strings on the headstock to help eliminate a faint buzz.  Each of eight strings has been carefully removed, examined and replaced.  I have also checked fret wear.  Still, she offers no reason, and appears willing to give anything requested of her.

I have run multiple patterns ad nauseam.  Many of them are unimpressive, or even ugly in their elemental form.  The left hand hits notes that the right hand can't seem to touch on the up-stroke.  Pick direction is not the problem, and the source has been unbelievably elusive.

On Saturday night, I finally broke through.  The issue was nothing other than a modified pick angle I was consciously trying to change.  I have decided to standardize on easy-to-find Golden Gate picks, though I still really like my Butterfly picks designed and molded by my good friend, Pete Carney.  My playing is far from perfect of course, but once again, it is a stress reliever rather than a contributor.  I already know it can't last forever.  There are always distant frets, just barely out of reach.  One day, I will reach them only to discover others.  In the meantime, my fingertips are sore once again.