I had a dream. Thousands of screaming women charged the stage where I stood, playing my guitar. I was the object of their desire. My band played hit song after hit song as the security guards struggled to restrain the surging throngs. As far as I could see, fanatical fans danced and sang to my song. I had to make this dream come true.

The obvious problem with this scenario began to cloud my majestic vision. "Jeremy, you have no musical talent," I thought to myself.

I thought back on my tumultuous piano lessons. I had hated every minute that I spent behind the ivory keys. For four long months I had toiled and travailed. My efforts were wasted.

"This time will be different," I consoled myself. "The guitar is easy."

Mere days later I grimaced as I contorted my hands trying to play an F chord. My fingertips were red and raw. As I strummed the pick across the strings, a hollow plunking sound emanated from the instrument. I had failed again. Each attempt brought the same results.

As frustration set in, so did an unquenchable determination to conquer the six stringed beast. "I won't let you win!" I taunted. As an aspiring athlete, I had learned in my youth that intimidation is the key to beating an opponent. "Your mother is a banjo. Aren't you ashamed of those scrawny strings? You got no song." The insults flew, yet the guitar did not submit.

Had I met my match? Would I forfeit my destiny of becoming a rock star and teen idol? Would the guitar win?

Never!

My duel continued for weeks without any progress. The battle consumed my every thought. How could I conquer an indomitable foe? The guitar was winning.

Tears welled up in my eyes and my icy competitive spirit melted away. All that remained was to beg... "NO!" I could not allow such an abasing before an inanimate object. I determined to try one more time -- intellect against instrument.

The hunt began.

I lay my pointed pick to the steel underbelly of the wild creature and attacked. C, G, D, A, B flat, I played them all. Then I reached into my quiver and pulled out my barb tipped F chord. I would slay the beast by piercing its hollow soul.

The guitar trembled. It seemed to speak to me, "Please don't kill me." If we work together, nothing can beat us. Please!

The angry scorn on my face drooped into a look of pity. Could we cooperate? Could the fiery hatred that had consumed my heart be turned to flames of friendship and mutual understanding?

I let the pick slip out of my fingers and fall to the floor. Harmony flowed down my arms and through my fingertips. A melodious tune flowed from the guitar as I softly plucked the shining strings. I had not defeated my enemy. I had not subjugated this fierce creature. Somewhere, somehow we had developed a respect for each other. I had found company on my quest for fame and fortune.