Admittedly my status as a wanna-be guitarist started much sooner than law school. In 5th or 6th grade I thought it would be great to learn to play the piano. I took lessons for almost four months. I even practiced for two of those. I remember riding my bmx bike with the mountain bike handle bars (couldn’t afford a real mountain bike at the time) and running into the back of a parked car on my way home. I remember not seeing how my left hand and right hand could ever move independently of each other. I remember wondering why I still had to say Every Good Boy Deserves Fudge and FACE whenever I looked at written music. I remember thinking this was supposed to be easy.
And I don’t remember why I stopped.
A year or two later I signed up for a beginning guitar summer course that met once or twice a week at the high school. I played my Dad’s Pacifica strat knock off. It was black with a white pick guard and a maple neck and maple fret board. I had his Pocket Rock-it head phone amp and remember feeling so cool as I banged on the strings with the distortion on. I must have learned some chords and some folk songs, but I have no recollection of what I actually learned.