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The Terrible Creative is a storytelling podcast for photographers, designers, and creative professionals working through the parts of the creative process no gear review or business course ever covers.
Each episode is 30 to 40 minutes. Solo. Story-driven. Built around mental health, artistic identity, and what honest work costs in a career rewarding performance over truth.
This is not a photography podcast about cameras, presets, or client strategy. This is a podcast about the inner experience of being a creative professional, made for the mid-career photographer or designer who has mastered the technical side but lost the thread.
Hosted by Patrick Fore, commercial photographer, author, and former lead photographer and brand designer for Taylor Guitars. His work has appeared globally for clients like Nike, Petco, and Verizon. He built this show because none of the podcasts he found addressed the real problem.
If you are a photographer or creative professional who feels competent on the outside and quietly lost on the inside, you are a Terrible Creative. This is your podcast.
The Silence
Cold Open
I got an email last week from Carri—a baby photographer from Michigan, near Detroit—and it put words to something I've been gnawing on for months but couldn't quite spit out. Her message cut so close to the bone of what I see happening with creatives right now that I killed the episode I was planning to publish and decided to go with this instead. Because some conversations are worth having, even when they make you squirm.
Carri doesn't experience burnout the way the self-help books describe it. Not the noble exhaustion of the overworked artist grinding themselves to dust. Instead, she wrote something that made my stomach drop: "I feel burnout from NOT being burnt out. I LOVE what I do, to my very core, through every phase of every session, I am excited, I am eager, I am fulfilled... My burnout happens when I DON'T get to do what I love."
Her burnout doesn't come from too much work. It comes from not enough of it. From loving something so deeply that its absence becomes a physical ache—like phantom limb syndrome, but for your creative soul.
We talk about burnout like it's always about the hustle, the grind, the endless hamster wheel of creation. But what about the other kind? The kind that creeps in when your camera becomes a paperweight, when your creative muscle starts to atrophy like a broken arm in a cast, when you begin to wonder if maybe you were just kidding yourself all along.
Carri's email made me realize something: sometimes the loudest noise in our creative lives isn't the chaos—it's the silence.
My name is Patrick Fore, This is the Terrible Photographer Podcast and today’s episode is called, The Silence - And today we’re talking about how when the work slows, the questions get louder
The Hidden Burnout
Turns out there's actually a name for what Carri described, and it comes from an unlikely place: two Swiss business consultants who were watching their clients slowly die inside their corner offices.
In 2007, Philippe Rothlin (fee-LEEP ROTH-lin)—a banking project manager with an MBA—and Peter Werder (VER-der)—a journalist with a PhD in Philosophy—published a book called Diagnose Boreout. These weren't academics dissecting workplace theory from ivory towers; they were consultants working in the trenches, watching employees who had everything they should need to be fulfilled, yet were withering like plants in fluorescent light.
Boreout. The evil twin of burnout. A psychological disorder that causes real physical illness, but from mental underload rather than overload. The symptoms mirror burnout exactly—depression, insomnia, that bone-deep fatigue—but the cause is the opposite. It's like starving in a world obsessed with overeating.
Organizational psychologist Adam Grant puts it perfectly: "Burnout is being overwhelmed by work. Boreout is being underwhelmed by work."
Underwhelmed by work. That phrase hits like a diagnosis you didn't know you needed. It captures something most of us are too proud to admit: that our creative confidence is more fragile than we pretend, balanced on a knife's edge between too much and not enough.
For photographers, this cuts different. We don't just lose gigs when the work disappears—we lose ourselves. As Carri put it: "When you love what you do, and you have a successful business, the slow times can really make you question everything because those are the moments when you really start questioning yourself and whether or not anyone will ever begin to see your worth again."
That phrase—whether or not anyone will ever begin to see your worth again—it's like a scalpel cutting straight to the fear we pretend doesn't exist. That maybe we were never as good as we thought. That maybe the world finally figured out what we suspected all along.
The Power of Silence
I'm learning this right now during my current dry spell. After weeks of checking email like a junkie refreshing a dealer's phone number, I finally did something radical: I put my phone in a drawer and took my dog Loki for a walk without it.
No podcast filling my ears. No music as a soundtrack. Just me, Loki, and the sound of our footsteps on warm San Diego pavement.
At first, it was torture. My brain immediately started its greatest hits collection of catastrophic thinking: What if someone books while I'm gone? What if I miss the email that changes everything? What if this is the moment my phone becomes the hottest commodity in town and I'm out here watching my dog christen every fire hydrant in a five-block radius?
But here's what I've learned—the anxiety doesn't magically disappear after twenty minutes like some meditation app promises. It's always there, humming in the background like a broken air conditioner. Those of us who've chosen to make a living from our creativity know that particular frequency never really goes away.
But when I make the conscious choice to give my brain permission to think about other things, something shifts. I start noticing how ridiculously perfect San Diego weather is. I laugh at Loki claiming his kingdom one utility pole at a time. I wonder about my neighbors who seem to think Michael McDonald's version of "Yah Mo B There" deserves to be shared with the entire block at maximum volume.
It gives my brain space to breathe. Plus, I'm moving my body, releasing those cocktails of dopamine and serotonin that actually make me feel human again instead of just a anxiety-producing machine in photographer's clothing.
The anxiety is still there—it's always there—but I'm learning to let it exist in the passenger seat instead of driving the car. And in that space between the worry and the wonder, I hear something I'd forgotten existed—my own voice. Not the one that writes captions or responds to client emails, but the one that remembers why I fell in love with light in the first place.
We live in a culture that treats silence like a disease. We medicate every quiet moment with content, fill every gap with noise, as if silence might reveal something we're not ready to see. But research shows that intentional silence doesn't just calm us—it changes us. It enhances problem-solving, improves focus, makes us more creative.
The key word is intentional. There's a universe of difference between silence imposed on us and silence we choose. When clients ghost us, when the phone becomes a paperweight, when our work vanishes into the digital void—that's imposed silence, and it feels like punishment. But when we step into quiet deliberately, it becomes something else entirely: a laboratory for rediscovering what we actually have to say.
Incubation and Creative Breakthroughs
There's a concept in psychology called the incubation effect. It's the idea that when we stop actively trying to solve a problem, our subconscious keeps working on it like a background app we forgot was running. The breakthrough doesn't come during the struggle—it comes during the pause, when we're not looking.
Think about it: how many of your best ideas have ambushed you in the shower, on a walk, or in that drowsy space just before sleep? Not while you were hunched over your computer forcing creativity through a funnel, but when you finally stopped trying.
The same principle applies to creative careers. We think progress only happens when we're actively working, actively marketing, actively producing content like content machines. But some of the most important growth happens in the spaces between—during the quiet periods when nothing visible is happening, when the soil is being turned over in preparation for what comes next.
During my current drought, I'm not booking clients, but I'm processing everything I learned from last year's work. I'm unconsciously identifying patterns in what lit me up and what drained me. I'm letting my creative vision evolve without the pressure of immediate application, like film developing in a darkroom—rush the process, and you ruin the image.
When the work finally starts flowing again, it will be different. Not because I tried harder, but because I gave myself permission to stop trying for a while. The silence is allowing me to remember what I actually want to say with my camera, not just what I think people want to see.
Navigating the "Unhappily Unsuccessful" Phase
Let's be brutally honest about what this feels like in real time. When you're in the silence, when the work has evaporated and the validation has gone with it, it doesn't feel like creative incubation. It feels like professional death.
Carri introduced me to a framework that captures this perfectly. She mentioned a conversation from @Detroitbravo about the phases of entrepreneurship: first you're "Happily Unsuccessful"—starting out with drive and naive optimism, building something with potential. Then "Unhappily Successful"—you've found success but you're killing yourself to maintain it, like a farmer harvesting crops with his bare hands. Finally "Happily Successful"—you've figured out how to succeed without sacrificing your sanity.
But Carri added something crucial: "There's a fourth phase that pops in from time to time, whether we want it to or not. That is the 'unhappily unsuccessful' phase. This is the phase in which you start questioning yourself, your worth, and whether anyone will ever appreciate you again."
Unhappily unsuccessful. God, that phrase cuts deep because it's surgical in its accuracy. It's not the clean devastation of obvious failure—that would almost be easier. It's the slow burn of irrelevance, the feeling that you're good at what you do but the world has collectively decided to pretend you don't exist.
The stories we tell about creative success are all wrong—the overnight sensations, the viral moments, the discovery narratives. But for most of us, the journey looks more like a cardiac monitor: peaks and valleys and long stretches of apparent flatline in between.
Ansel Adams was 40 before his first major exhibition. Julia Child was 49 when she published her first cookbook. Van Gogh sold one painting in his lifetime. These aren't feel-good trivia points—they're evidence that creative work doesn't follow the timeline of our instant gratification culture.
But here's what I've learned: the silence is also evidence that you're still here. You haven't quit. You haven't given up. You're still showing up to the uncertainty, still believing in something that can't be measured in likes or bookings or quarterly reports.
As Carri wrote: "It's important to not overlook the unhappily unsuccessful phase. It's a real part of being an entrepreneur... Working through the down times and evolving if needed is an important part of it all."
That's not small. That's actually heroic.
Introducing Light Leaks
Before we dive into this week's creative invitation, I want to tell you about something new I'm weaving into each episode—something I'm calling Light Leaks.
If you've ever shot film, you know that light leaks are usually considered mistakes. Light seeps into the camera where it shouldn't, creating those unexpected streaks and flares across your images. Sometimes they ruin the shot completely. But sometimes—sometimes they reveal something beautiful you never would have planned, something more honest than what you were trying to capture.
That's what these segments are about. Small, unplanned moments of illumination. Weekly invitations to pause and notice something true about your creative life, even if it's uncomfortable. Even if it doesn't lead to content or productivity or anything you can monetize.
Light Leaks aren't assignments or challenges designed to build your following. Think of them more like... creative truth-triggers. Questions that won't leave you alone. Invitations to be present with your work and your life in a way that's honest rather than performative.
They're meant to feel small and sharp and slow—like something you'd scribble in the margin of a book that hit too close to home, or a voice memo you'd leave for yourself at 2 AM. The kind of creative work that happens between the visible work, in the spaces where nobody's watching and nobody's keeping score.
So here's this week's Light Leak.
Light Leak: Embracing the Quiet
This week's invitation is about finding the gift hiding in your own silence.
I want you to think about a time when quiet—either chosen or imposed—led to something unexpected. Maybe it was a creative breakthrough, maybe it was just a moment of clarity about what you actually wanted, maybe it was simply the relief of not having to perform for a while.
Here are the questions to sit with:
What did the silence reveal about your desires or fears that the noise had been covering up?
How did this period of quiet influence what you chose to create next?
And here's the gentle challenge: sometime this week, choose silence. Put your phone in a drawer for an hour. Take a walk without a podcast companion. Sit with your camera but don't feel compelled to photograph anything unless something actually moves you—not because you should, but because you must.
See what happens when you stop filling the space and let the space fill you instead.
This isn't about productivity or content creation or building your brand. This is about remembering that you exist beyond what you produce, and sometimes the most important creative work happens when you're not trying to create anything at all.
Field Notes Newsletter Plug
Hey—real quick before we wrap.
If you've been nodding along, rewinding a line, or quietly saying "damn" to yourself at any point during this episode, I'd love for you to join Field Notes. It's my free weekly newsletter—part photo journal, part creative dispatch, part reminder that you're not crazy for wanting to make something that matters.
It's not spam. No AI blog roundup. No "10 Tips for How to Use Your Flash."
Just one honest email, once a week. Sometimes it's a behind-the-scenes story I didn't share on the podcast. Sometimes it's a question I'm wrestling with that won't leave me alone. Sometimes it's just a photo I took walking Loki that made me remember why I love this work. And sometimes it's a nudge to stay in the game when everything feels quiet.
The kind of thing you might forward to that photographer friend who gets it. The kind of email you actually want to open instead of archive.
You can sign up at terriblephotographer.com—scroll down, you'll see it. Or hit the link in the show notes.
It's for people like Carri. Like you. Like me. The ones who care too much, question everything, and keep showing up anyway.
See you in your inbox.
Closing Thoughts
Let me come back to Carri's email one more time, because her honesty deserves the last word here.
She wrote: "I LOVE what I do, to my very core, through every phase of every session, I am excited, I am eager, I am fulfilled." But then: "When you love what you do, and you have a successful business, the slow times can really make you question everything."
There's the knife's edge right there. The deeper your love for the work, the more devastating its absence becomes. It's not about money, though money matters. It's not about recognition, though recognition helps. It's about that deep human need to express what's burning inside us, to make something that matters, to feel useful in a world that often feels indifferent to what we have to offer.
But Carri also gave us something else—that framework of being "unhappily unsuccessful." She reminded us that "success isn't always consistent" and that these phases are real parts of choosing to make a living from your soul.
The silence will come whether we invite it or not. Consultations will lead to digital ghosts. Inquiries will dry up like desert streams. Our phones will go quiet. We can fight it, panic about it, or learn to dance with it.
What I know now that I didn't know during my anxious spring is this: the silence isn't punishment for not being good enough. It's not evidence that we've failed or that our work doesn't matter.
The silence is space. Space for the work to evolve, for us to remember why we started, for the next phase to gestate before it's born. Space to love what we do even when we're not getting to do it enough.
Carri's insight about working through the down times and evolving when needed—that's the real creative work. Not just making images, but making meaning from the spaces between the images. Not just building a business, but building the resilience to weather its inevitable seasons.
The silence isn't the opposite of creative work—it's where some of the most important work happens. The work of believing in yourself when no one else is paying attention. The work of staying curious when the world seems indifferent. The work of keeping your heart open to what wants to be created, even when you can't see the path forward.
Your camera will wait for you. Your vision will wait for you. Your voice will wait for you.
And Carri, if you're listening—thank you for your courage in naming what so many of us feel but rarely say out loud. Your "unhappily unsuccessful" phase taught me something about my own. And that love you have for what you do? That doesn't disappear during the quiet times. It's what carries you through them.
The silence has something to tell all of us, if we're brave enough to listen.
Thank you friends, we’ll see you next tuesday, until then, stay curious, stay strong and yes, stay terrible.
Let’s talk about Light Leaks.
They happen when a little bit of light sneaks into the camera body where it’s not supposed to—through the cracks, the gaps, the broken seams. Technically? It’s a flaw. An imperfection.
But sometimes, it’s the best part of the photo.
That burst of color. That unexpected flare. That little chaos that makes the image feel more alive than perfect ever could.
So around here, that’s what we’re calling our weekly creative experiment: Light Leaks.
It’s not homework. It’s not a challenge. It’s not me handing down assignments from the top of Mount Olympus.
It’s a nudge.
A doorway.
A bit of intentional light seeping through the cracks in your routine.
Each week, I’ll offer a prompt—something small, specific, and slightly uncomfortable. A question, a task, a way of seeing that might just interrupt the algorithm long enough for you to remember why you picked up a camera in the first place.
You don’t have to post anything.
You don’t have to tag me.
You don’t have to explain yourself.
But if it leads you to something honest—something surprising—something that makes you tilt your head and go, “Oh, there you are”—then it did its job.
That’s what Light Leaks are.
Not tutorials.
Not checklists.
Just moments of honest interference.
Little bursts of light in a very polished, very filtered world.
Welcome to the leak.
Prompt:
I want you to describe the last time you felt disconnected from your work.
Not bored. Not burnt out from too much. But from not enough.
The absence. The space.
The silence that showed up uninvited.
Then, I want you to answer this—honestly:
What did that silence say to you?
Maybe it whispered something you didn’t want to hear.
Maybe it reminded you what you actually want to make.
Or maybe it just pissed you off.
Whatever it was—write it down.
Let it be awkward. Let it be incoherent. Let it be true.
You don’t have to share it.
But if you do, leave the camera out of it. No photos. Just words.
Describe the silence. Name it. Talk to it.
This isn’t content.
This is clarity.
Hey—quick break from the episode.
If you’ve ever wanted something a little more from this podcast…like, maybe a nudge in the right direction, a question to chew on, or just a reminder that you’re not the only one out here spiraling over your creative purpose while making toast—good news.
I write a weekly email called Field Notes.
It’s short. It’s weirdly helpful. And it’s not trying to sell you a preset pack.
It’s where I drop thoughts that didn’t make the podcast, links I’m digging, creative challenges, and the occasional rant about the industry—delivered straight to your inbox every week.
It’s totally free. It’s actually good. And it’s the best way to stay in the loop as this whole Terrible Photographer thing evolves into a weird little creative rebellion.
Head to terriblephotographer.com to sign up.
Or just check the show notes. I made it easy.
Alright. Back to the episode.
You know, I keep thinking about Carri sitting in Michigan, wondering if anyone will ever see her worth again. And I realize she's not alone in that question. Right now, there's probably a wedding photographer in Portland refreshing their email. A portrait artist in Austin wondering if their last good session was actually their last good session. A commercial photographer in Brooklyn staring at a camera that feels more like furniture than a tool.
But here's what I want them—what I want you—to know: the silence doesn't get to decide your worth. It never did. It's just... silence. And sometimes the most important thing we can do is sit with it long enough to remember that we're still here, still breathing, still believing in something that can't be quantified.
The work will come back. It always does. But you? You're here right now, in the quiet, choosing to stay curious instead of giving up. That's not nothing. That's everything.