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The Terrible Creative is a storytelling podcast for photographers, designers, and creative humans trying to stay honest in a world that rewards pretending
TITLE: When the Light Hits You Back
SUBTITLE: Why sudden attention might be the most dangerous thing for your creativity.
It’s 6:47 AM. My face is half-smashed into a pillow, brain still drifting somewhere between a dream about being back in high school and a vague sense of dread. You know that liminal space — where you can’t remember if it’s Monday or Thursday, and both answers feel like bad news.
I grab my phone. Yeah, I know. First thing. I’m not proud of it. But let’s not pretend you’re doing yoga and reading Marcus Aurelius at dawn either.
So I check it. And there it is — a little red badge. Apple Podcasts. I tap it. And boom. There’s my show. Featured.
Right there. Front and center. The Terrible Photographer Podcast. This oddball audio diary I’ve been recording in my garage while my dog snores behind me… is now suddenly getting attention.
And the first thing I feel isn’t pride. It isn’t validation. It’s not even that low-grade smugness you feel when a high school ex likes your new work photo.
No. What I feel is nausea.
Like I just got called on in class and realized I’m not wearing pants.
There’s a cold-sweat kind of panic that creeps in when people start looking. Not just looking — expecting.
The episode that got me here? That was me being honest. Raw. Burnt out. Done pretending.
But now I’m staring at the screen thinking, “Oh shit. What do I do next?”
My name is Patrick Fore. This is The Terrible Photographer Podcast, and today’s episode is a rare one I’m calling: The Light Hits Back.
If you’re new here… welcome. You’ve stumbled into a strange little corner of the internet where we talk about photography, creativity, burnout, failure, and the occasional existential spiral — all with the gentle optimism of a man speaking into the void from his garage at 1AM while his Border Collie stares at him, mildly concerned, mildly annoyed that I’m not asleep.
This isn’t a tutorial podcast. I’m not going to tell you how to grow your business in 90 days or which dumb camera to buy will make your brand more authentic. I assume you’re smart. And tired. And probably wondering what the hell any of this has to do with photography.
Not to mention why you would listen to anyone who refers to himself as a terrible photographer.
What this show is — is a quiet rebellion. A space for the people making real work in a world that keeps asking for shiny content. It’s for photographers, artists, designers, writers, and creative humans who are still out here trying to make something that feels… honest. Even if it’s weird. Even if no one claps.
So if you’re feeling a little lost, a little burnt, a little sick of all the fake bullshit smiles and perfect grids — you’re in good company.
Let’s get into it.
Here’s what they don’t tell you about attention: it doesn’t evolve you. It mutates you.
Not in months. In hours.
You go from making something beautiful in silence — clumsy, flawed, real — to standing in front of a mirror wondering what your “brand voice” is and if your Instagram grid has enough cohesion.
You start calculating every move like a Silicon Valley sociopath on a microdose bender:
“Do I post about this now?”
“Should I mention the book?”
“Do I hashtag it, or is that too thirsty?”
“Do I pivot the podcast vibe now that people are actually tuning in?”
You stop making.
You start managing.
And that shift — that invisible, insidious shift — is the beginning of the end.
I know this. Because I’ve been here before.
Three years ago, I shot a photo at the Glamis dunes. It wasn’t a job. Just a fashion editorial test shoot with some friends. Low pressure. Dust in the air, golden hour, no expectations.
And then — this guy. Random as hell. Walking across the horizon, way out past where any normal human should’ve been.
He’s alone. Silhouetted. Looks like he wandered straight out of Dune or another dimension. I grab the shot. One frame. That’s it.
Later, I post it. It blows up.
Like, tens of thousands of likes overnight. Follower count climbing by the hour. DM requests. People asking if it’s AI.
And me? I’m thinking: “Finally. They see me.”
So I post another one from that shoot. Similar light. Similar vibe. Pretty good, if I’m being honest.
Sixty likes.
That’s when the spiral begins.
I start chasing the dragon — reposting old work, tweaking captions, editing for “engagement.”
By week three, I’m posting things I don’t even like. I’m not making work. I’m dressing mannequins in costumes I think the algorithm wants to see.
All because one photo — one random, unscripted, divine little accident — got noticed.
And I mistook that for a formula.
The cruel joke is: the work that gets you seen is rarely the work you planned. It’s the accidental flicker. The unguarded moment. The shot that wasn’t on your mood board.
The minute you try to reverse-engineer that magic, it dies. You turn mystery into math. Wonder into strategy.
And when it doesn’t work again? You don’t blame the machine. You blame yourself.
You start thinking maybe you’re broken. Maybe you peaked. Maybe you should’ve gone into UX design like your cousin.
The truth is: you’re not broken.
You’re just trying to make poetry in a casino.
The algorithm doesn’t reward honesty. It rewards obedience.
It wants clean lanes. Regular output. Predictability.
Neon portraits? Cool — now do that forever. Food flat lays? Great — but only on Tuesdays. No sudden movements.
Try anything new — a poem, a protest, a weird little audio experiment about creative burnout — and it buries you.
Ask my friend Jada.
She built her following shooting dreamy, ethereal portraits. Soft fabrics. Backlit models. That Pinterest-core vibe you see on the walls of mid-century coffee shops.
But after George Floyd, something in her cracked. She started photographing protests. Marginalized communities. Harsh light. Unedited stories. Real life.
And Instagram punished her for it.
Her reach tanked. Comments dried up. People unfollowed.
Because she dared to evolve.
She told me, “It’s like I built a box and now I’m suffocating in it.”
We all do that. We all build boxes. Sometimes they look like success. Sometimes they look like aesthetic cohesion.
But they’re still boxes.
And here’s the kicker: the algorithm doesn’t care if you’re dying inside. It just wants content.
It doesn’t speak the language of grief. Or joy. Or growth. It speaks in clicks. In metrics. In the numerical shadow of your soul.
I’ve said this before, but I’ll say it again: I don’t like being seen.
I like making. I like the garage at midnight, a notebook of ramblings, and my dog breathing at my feet.
I like hearing my own voice through headphones, not to admire it, but to figure out what the hell I’m actually trying to say.
I don’t want to optimize this. I want to survive it.
And if that means going dark sometimes, so be it. If that means skipping the hype post or the follow-up or the trending sound, fine. Let someone else chase the algorithm.
I want to chase the truth.
That’s why I love photography. Behind the lens, I don’t have to explain myself. I just have to notice. To bear witness. To show people how I see the world, one frozen frame at a time.
But this is 2025. And the truth is, attention is currency. It pays bills. It opens doors. It can change your life. And I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want some of that.
I’m just not willing to trade my soul for it.
Somewhere between celebration and exploitation is a small patch of land I’m trying to stand on. The space between making and marketing. Between being real and being seen.
I’m making this episode as a breadcrumb. A reminder to myself that just because something got noticed doesn’t mean it needs to be monetized.
Sometimes the best move isn’t action. It’s intention.
You want a case study?
Johnny Cash.
Early 90s. Nobody cared. He was a relic — a museum piece in black.
Enter Rick Rubin. White beard. Zero chill. Buddhist hip-hop cowboy.
He tells Cash: forget the producers. Forget the label. Just you, a guitar, and the truth.
That’s it.
They record American Recordings — an album so raw, so unvarnished, it felt like a confession. And it hit like nothing else. Not because it was marketable.
Because it was honest.
He didn’t ride a wave. He ignored it. He went inward when the world said to go bigger.
He trusted the silence more than the spotlight.
And that — that — is what I’m trying to remember right now.
Because every time something good happens, there’s this reflex. Do something.
Respond. Maximize. Build the funnel. Start the series. Go live.
But what if the most revolutionary thing you can do… is nothing?
What if you sit with it? Feel it. Let it marinate.
Let the world spin for a minute without your input.
Not out of laziness. Out of reverence.
Not everything needs to be packaged. Not every win needs a carousel post.
Some moments are meant to be absorbed. Not turned into a growth strategy.
Because when you chase every spark, you miss the fire you were supposed to build.
And when you say yes to everything, you lose the power of a well-timed no.
If you’re new here — welcome. But don’t get too comfortable. There’s no funnel waiting. No merch drop. No limited-time opt-in.
Just this question:
What were you doing before this episode found you?
No, seriously. What were you working on? What idea was quietly calling you before all this noise barged in?
A photo series you haven’t started?
A conversation you’ve been avoiding?
A project that feels too weird, too raw, too “off-brand” to share?
Don’t abandon it just because something shiny walked in.
Go back there.
Sit with it.
Let it breathe.
Let the light hit you — and don’t rush to bottle it.
Life doesn’t care about your engagement rate.
It’s coming either way. Slow. Messy. Unimpressed.
It’ll hand you good news wrapped in pressure. Drop you in the deep end when you were hoping for a quiet day.
And you — flawed, tired, hopeful you — will keep showing up.
You’ll care when it’s hard. You’ll make something anyway. You’ll walk the dog and shoot the frame and speak the sentence that felt too risky.
And when the day ends, however it ends, you’ll go to sleep knowing one thing:
You didn’t sell out.
You stayed in it.
And that’s enough.
We’ll see you Tuesday.
Stay Courageous. Stay Curious. And yeah…
Stay Terrible.