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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.
In 1989, a sociologist named Ray Oldenburg wrote a book called The Great Good Place.
This book, The Great Good Place was about cities. About neighborhoods. About why some places feel alive and others feel dead.
And at the center of his research was this concept: The Third Space.
Oldenburg said we live in three spaces.
The First Space is your home. Your private life. Where you sleep, where you eat, where you exist as yourself.
The Second Space is your work. Your office, your studio, your productive life. Where you perform a role, where you produce output.
But the Third Space? That's different.
The Third Space is the pub. The coffee shop. The barbershop. The church. The park bench where the regulars gather.
It's neutral ground. Nobody owns it. Nobody's in charge.
It's a leveler. The doctor and the dishwasher sit at the same table. Your job title doesn't matter. Your résumé doesn't matter.
Conversation is the main activity. Not networking. Not transactions. Just... talking.
It's accessible. You can show up or not show up. There's no commitment, no obligation.
It's playful. There's humor. There's lightness. It's not serious all the time.
And most importantly: it has regulars.
The same people show up. Week after week. Month after month. You become known. You become seen.
[PAUSE]
Oldenburg called these places "a home away from home."
A place where you could exist without performing. Without producing. Without proving anything.
Just... being.
And he argued that these spaces are essential. Not optional. Essential.
Because without them, we become isolated. Transactional. Lonely.
[BEAT]
And here's the problem, and I bet you know what I’m about to say.
We don't have them anymore.
[MUSIC SWELLS BRIEFLY, THEN SETTLES]
MOVEMENT 1.5: THE HANDSHAKE
My name is Patrick Fore, and this is The Terrible Photographer—where we have honest conversations about creativity, identity, and discovering your voice.
Today is Episode 44. And this is Part 4—the finale—of a four-part series I'm calling "The Long Middle."
Now, "The Long Middle" is that specific season in a creative life where you've mastered the skills, you've built the business, you've done everything "right"... but something still feels off. You're good at what you do, but you feel invisible. You're successful, but you're perhaps lonely.
In Part 1, we talked about The Island—the loneliness that comes when you get so good at something that fewer and fewer people can actually see what you're doing. You're Joshua Bell in the subway, playing a Stradivarius, and everyone's just walking past.
In Part 2, we talked about The Costume—how we hide behind professional roles and personas instead of showing up as ourselves. How we can't find community because we're all dressed as stagehands, terrified of being seen without our armor.
In Part 3, we talked about The Enemy—the hierarchies and gatekeeping that divide us, and how we're all complicit in enforcing the systems that hurt us.
And today, in Part 4, we're talking about The Third Space.
How we actually build community. How we find witnesses. How we get off the island.
If this is your first episode—welcome. You can jump in anywhere. And as always, you can email me anytime. Email's in the show notes.
[PAUSE - 3 SECONDS]
MOVEMENT 2: THE MEANDERING
So here was my question and maybe this is your question.. Why don't we have Third Spaces anymore?
Well first, The suburbs killed walkable gathering places. You can't spontaneously run into people when everyone drives everywhere.
Work-from-home collapsed the First Space and Second Space into the same room. Your bedroom is your office is your studio. There's no separation. There's no "third" anything.
Social media promised community but delivered performance. Instagram isn't a pub. It's a stage. Everyone's performing. Nobody's connecting.
And then 2020 happened. And we lost even the illusion of Third Space.
And then 2020 happened.
And we lost even the illusion of Third Space.
[PAUSE]
Not just temporarily. Not just during lockdowns.
COVID didn't pause Third Space culture. It put a knife in its kidney.
And we're still living in the wreckage.
[BEAT]
Here's what happened:
For two years, we were told that gathering was dangerous. That proximity was a threat. That the safest thing you could do was stay home. Alone.
And we adapted. We learned to work from home. We learned to order everything online. We learned to exist in isolation.
And then the world opened back up.
But we didn't.
I still get food delivered and left on my doorstep. On my fucking doorstep, because I don’t want to open the door to face another human being because of the shame of him delivering ice cream and cold brew at 11pm at night on a Tuesday.
[PAUSE]
Because here's the thing nobody talks about: we got used to it.
We got used to not having to be "on." Not having to make small talk. Not having to navigate social anxiety in physical spaces.
We got comfortable in our sweatpants. In our controlled environments. In our algorithmically curated digital feeds.
And when the opportunity came to go back out into the world, to show up at coffee shops and meetups and social gatherings... a lot of us just... didn't.
[BEAT]
I remember Meetup.com.
Before COVID, it was thriving. You could find a group for anything. Photography walks. Coffee meetups. Book clubs. Creative nights.
It was how people found their Third Spaces in cities where they didn't know anyone.
You'd show up at a bar on a Tuesday night, awkward as hell, looking for a table of strangers who were also awkward as hell, all trying to connect over a shared interest.
It worked. Not always. But often enough.
[PAUSE]
COVID killed it.
Not literally—the site still exists. But the culture around it? Dead.
I looked recently. The groups are still there. But the events? Sparse. Infrequent. Poorly attended.
People stopped showing up. And they never came back.
[BEAT]
And it's not just Meetup.
Coffee shops are quieter. Everyone's on their laptops, headphones in, working alone in a crowded room.
Bars are less social. People scroll their phones between conversations.
Workshops and meetups that used to fill up now struggle to get a handful of people to commit.
And it's not because we're busier. It's because we forgot how to show up.
We learned to be alone. And we forgot how to be together.
[PAUSE]
There's research on this. Social scientists call it "social atrophy."
The same way a muscle weakens when you don't use it, your capacity for social connection weakens when you isolate for too long.
Small talk feels harder. Eye contact feels awkward. Showing up to a room full of strangers feels impossible.
And the longer you wait, the harder it gets.
[BEAT]
So here we are. 2025. Almost five years later.
The world is open. Restrictions are gone. We can gather. We can meet. We can build Third Spaces again.
But we're not doing it.
We're still scrolling. Still working from home. Still avoiding the discomfort of physical presence.
Not because it's dangerous anymore.
But because we've forgotten how.
[BEAT]
Now, I need to acknowledge something here.
Because I was talking to a friend about this the other day. I told her about Ray Oldenburg's Third Space concept. About how we don't have them anymore.
And she thought about it for a moment, and then she said: "Reddit is my Third Space. And Discord."
And she's not wrong.
[PAUSE]
We don't have supper clubs anymore. We don't have bingo night. We don't have the neighborhood bar where everybody knows your name.
But we do have these weird digital spaces where people find each other. Pockets of the internist where where people build connection.
For better or for worse.
Reddit communities built around specific interests. Discord servers for niche hobbies. Slack groups. Email lists. Even comment sections on YouTube videos where the same people show up week after week.
And look, some of these spaces are deeply unhinged.
There are subreddits dedicated to rating the aesthetic quality of different fonts (buncha fuckin nerds). Discord servers where people argue about the correct way to peel a banana. YouTube comment sections where the same five people have been debating camera strap ergonomics for three years. (so many nerds)
It's bizarre. It’s nerdy. But tt's beautiful. It's the internet.
These aren't social media in the traditional sense. They're not Instagram. They're not performing for an audience.
They're... closer to a pub.
Neutral ground. Conversation is the main activity. Regulars show up. There's a rhythm. A culture. Inside jokes.
[BEAT]
And look, it's not ideal.
Oldenburg was talking about physical spaces. Places you could walk to. Places where you could see someone's face, read their body language, share a drink, exist in the same room.
Digital can't replace that.
But it's the age we live in.
And some people—especially neurodivergent people, people with mobility issues, people in remote areas, people who work weird hours—some people find real community in these digital Third Spaces.
[PAUSE]
So here's the nuance:
Not all digital spaces are performance platforms.
Instagram is performance. LinkedIn is performance. Twitter is performance.
But a small Discord server where the same 12 people talk about film photography every Tuesday night? That might actually be Third Space.
A subreddit where people genuinely help each other troubleshoot lighting setups without flexing their gear? That might be Third Space.
The key difference is this:
Are you performing... or are you being seen?
Are you curating an image... or are you sharing a struggle?
Are you collecting followers... or are you connecting with humans?
[BEAT]
But here's what I also know:
Digital-only Third Space is incomplete.
You need physical presence too.
You need to look someone in the eye. You need to sit across a table from another human. You need to exist in a room where you can't edit yourself before you speak.
Because digital spaces—even the good ones—still let you hide.
You can craft your message. You can delete and rewrite. You can present the version of yourself you want people to see.
Physical presence doesn't let you do that.
Physical presence forces you to be human. Awkward. Uncertain. Real.
[PAUSE]
So here's the challenge—and this is a challenge to me as much as it is to you:
Touch grass.
I know that phrase gets thrown around online as an insult. "Go touch grass, weirdo."
But I mean it sincerely.
Do real things with real people in real spaces that have nothing to do with an internet connection.
Go to a coffee shop and strike up a conversation with another creative.
Join a local camera club—not the Facebook group, the actual in-person meetup. Seriously, I know camera clubs are kinda cheesy and lame and it’s usually a bunch of retired folks talking about photos of barns and old cars, but who knows, it could be fun.
Take a workshop. Not an online course. An actual workshop where you're in a room with other people.
Maybe if you’re so bold, host an event, host a workshop, host a camera club - who knows it could be the start of something interesting.
[BEAT]
Digital Third Spaces can be part of your ecosystem.
But they can't be all of it.
You need both.
You need the Discord server where you talk about gear or the latest Christopher Nolan film at midnight.
And you need the coffee shop where you admit you're struggling with getting work and someone looks you in the eye and says, "Yeah. Me too."
[PAUSE]
But for photographers—for creatives in general—the problem runs deeper.
We used to have physical Third Spaces.
The analog photography lab where you'd run into other photographers while developing film. You'd wait for your prints, talk shop, see what other people were working on.
The camera store where you'd spend an hour talking to the guy behind the counter. Not buying anything. Just... talking. I remember my dad, who was a photographer at one point, would talk to his film guy ‘Clyde’ at his lab (Freeport Photo) for 45 minutes and I would just sit there looking at photography magazines and enjoying smelling the chemicals. I’m often sad that I don’t have my own ‘Clyde’. That photo lab is now a Jiffy Lube now. How sad is that.
There used to be things like Industry happy hours that weren't about "networking." Just photographers grabbing drinks after work.
Studios where you'd assist, where there was a staff, where you'd build actual relationships over time.
[PAUSE]
So what killed it?
Digital workflow. You work from home now. There's no lab to visit.
Online ordering. There's no camera store to hang out in. B&H and Amazon.
The gig economy. There are no studios with staff. Just freelancers working alone hising behind the glow of our Macbook Pros.
[BEAT]
And now we're here.
Successful. Isolated. Surrounded by "peers" online but feeling like we're speaking a different language.
Like Sarah from Episode 40, editing alone in a dark spare bedroom, feeling invisible despite her success.
Me, leaving the APA mixer after two minutes because I couldn't figure out how to just... be in a room without a role.
You, scrolling Instagram at midnight, looking at other photographers' work, feeling simultaneously inspired and inadequate. Connected to thousands of people and known by none of them.
[PAUSE]
So we try to fix i you know.
We go to networking events. Trade shows. Conferences. Meetups.
And it doesn't work.
Because networking events aren't Third Space.
They're Second Space disguised as Third Space.
[BEAT]
At a networking event, you're still performing a role. Successful photographer. Professional. Expert.
The goal is transactional. Get clients. Make connections. Build your reputation.
Nobody is vulnerable because everyone is auditioning.
"Who do you shoot for?" is not Third Space conversation.
"Who do you shoot for?" is a status check. It's a hierarchy test. It's Second Space in a bar.
[PAUSE]
And that's the difference between networking and community.
Networking asks: "What can you do for me?"
Community asks: "How are you, really?"
Networking is about collecting contacts.
Community is about being witnessed.
Networking happens at conferences.
Community happens at the table.
[BEAT]
I've tried to find Third Space. I've failed every time.
APA mixers: Performed professional, left after two minutes.
Clubhouse during COVID: Tried to contribute, got dismissed, internalized the hierarchy.
Trade shows: A sea of black t-shirts all performing success.
Even at Taylor Guitars, my full-time corporate job: I had colleagues. I worked with talented people. But I felt completely alone.
[PAUSE]
The only exception? One person.
Leslie. 2800 miles away in Nashville.
She makes podcasts. She understands the craft. She sees the work nobody else sees.
She texts me about sound design, story ideas. About pacing. About the tiny decisions that don't show up in the final product but make the difference between good and great.
She's one of the seven people who stopped in the subway to listen to Joshua Bell.
And the irony is brutal: My only real Third Space relationship is digital. And distant. And with someone I've never met in person.
[MUSIC SHIFTS - DARKER, MORE REFLECTIVE]
MOVEMENT 3: THE PIVOT
So here's what I've realized.
You can't find Third Space.
You have to build it.
And I've been waiting for it to appear. Waiting to be invited. Waiting for someone else to create it and let me in.
But that's the same problem from Episode 41.
I'm waiting for permission again.
I'm waiting for the role, the call sheet, the established contract that tells me I'm allowed to be in the room.
But Third Space doesn't work like that.
Third Space doesn't exist until someone creates it.
And it doesn't start with a community. It starts with one person.
[BEAT]
And here's the part that's terrifying:
It requires vulnerability first.
Not: Get to know someone → Trust them → Be vulnerable.
But: Be vulnerable → See who responds → Build from there.
This is the opposite of how we've been taught to operate.
We've been taught to protect ourselves. To perform competence. To never show weakness until we're sure it's safe.
But Third Space doesn't work that way.
You have to risk rejection. You have to go first. You have to take off the mask before you know if the other person will do the same.
That's the only way to filter for actual community versus networking contacts.
[PAUSE]
And here's the other thing I've learned:
You don't need 100 photographer friends.
You need 2-3 people who actually see you.
There's research on this. Dunbar's number. We can only maintain about five close friendships at a time. Not acquaintances. Not contacts. Close friends.
People who know what you're actually struggling with. People who witness the work. People who see you without the costume.
Stop trying to build a network. Start trying to find your people.
[BEAT]
And it requires consistency, not intensity.
One deep conversation at a conference doesn't create Third Space.
Third Space requires showing up repeatedly.
It's the regulars who make a pub a pub.
Weekly coffee with one photographer is worth more than an annual epic meetup with 50 people.
Because Third Space isn't about the event. It's about the rhythm. The pattern. The predictability.
Knowing that next Tuesday, you'll be at the same table, with the same person, talking about the real stuff.
[MUSIC SHIFTS - SOFTER, MORE HOPEFUL]
MOVEMENT 4: THE RESOLUTION
So how do you actually build it?
Here's what it looks like in practice.
[BEAT]
Step 1: Reach out to one person.
Not ten people. One.
Someone whose work you respect. Someone who seems real—not constantly performing on Instagram, not always "crushing it," not hiding behind the professional persona.
And don't reach out to "pick their brain" or "collaborate" or "network."
Just: "I've been thinking about creative loneliness lately. Want to grab coffee?"
That's it. That's the whole message.
[PAUSE]
Step 2: Show up without your costume.
When you meet them, don't lead with your résumé.
Don't perform success. Don't hide the "wrong" work.
Talk about what you're actually struggling with.
"I'm shooting headshots and I feel like I have to apologize for it."
"I'm using Godox and I feel less legitimate."
"I'm jealous when I see other people's success and I hate that about myself."
"I haven't made personal work in two years and I don't know why."
The real shit. The uncomfortable shit. The stuff you don't post on Instagram.
[BEAT]
Step 3: Witness, don't fix.
When they share something vulnerable, resist the urge to immediately offer solutions.
Don't try to one-up them with your own story.
Don't say, "Oh, here's what worked for me."
Just: "Yeah. Me too." or "That sounds really hard."
The goal isn't problem-solving. It's being seen.
Because when you witness someone without trying to fix them, you give them permission to exist as they are. Messy. Uncertain. Human.
And that's what Third Space is.
[PAUSE]
Step 4: Make it regular.
At the end of the conversation, say: "Same time next month?"
Not "Let's do this again sometime." That's too vague. That never happens.
"Same time next month. Same coffee shop. Same table."
Consistency creates safety. Safety creates vulnerability. Vulnerability creates connection.
[BEAT]
Step 5: Expand carefully.
If it works with one person, you can add one more. Maybe two.
But keep it small. Three to five people maximum.
Because the moment the group gets too big, it stops being Third Space and starts being a networking event.
The moment someone says, "We should turn this into a meetup group and invite more people," pump the brakes.
Big groups require performance. Small groups allow presence.
[PAUSE]
And here's what you actually talk about:
The edit you're stuck on.
The client who's driving you crazy.
The work you're proud of but hiding.
The gear you can't afford.
The impostor syndrome.
The jealousy.
The exhaustion.
The gap between where you are and where you thought you'd be.
[BEAT]
And here's what you don't talk about:
How busy you are. (That's performance.)
Your latest big client. (That's status.)
Your gear—unless you're actually struggling with gear shame.
Industry gossip. (That creates false intimacy without real connection.)
[PAUSE]
Third Space isn't about impressing each other.
It's about dropping the need to impress anyone.
MOVEMENT 5: THE RESTORATION
So let's bring this full circle.
Over the past four weeks, we've been talking about The Long Middle.
That season in a creative life where you're good at what you do, but something still feels off.
[BEAT]
In Episode 40, we talked about The Island.
The loneliness that comes when you get so good at something that fewer and fewer people can see what you're actually doing.
You're Joshua Bell in the subway, playing a Stradivarius while everyone walks past.
You're Sarah, editing alone in a dark room, feeling invisible despite your success.
You're operating at a level of craft that most people can't perceive. And that's isolating.
[PAUSE]
In Episode 41, we talked about The Costume.
How we hide behind professional roles and personas instead of showing up as ourselves.
How we need established contracts—call sheets, stages, microphones—to feel legitimate.
How we can't find community because we're all dressed as stagehands, terrified of being seen without our armor.
[BEAT]
In Episode 42, we talked about The Enemy.
The hierarchies and gatekeeping that divide us.
How Profoto versus Godox isn't about light quality—it's about access.
How wedding photographers apologize for being "just" wedding photographers.
How we enforce the same systems that hurt us because we're afraid of being at the bottom.
And how we're all complicit.
[PAUSE]
And now we're here. Episode 43. The Third Space.
Talking about how we actually build community. How we find witnesses. How we get off the island.
[BEAT]
And here's the hard truth:
You can't do this alone.
But you have to start alone.
You have to be the first one to take off the mask.
You have to be vulnerable before you know if it's safe.
That's the cost of community.
But it's worth it.
[PAUSE]
Now, I need to tell you about something I'm trying.
I've been thinking about this for months. How do I actually build a Third Space for the people who listen to this podcast? For the people in the long middle who feel what Sarah feels, what I feel?
And I kept running into the same problem: most platforms are designed for performance.
Discord servers can work—if they're small, if they're intentional. But they also create pressure to be "on." To keep up. To contribute constantly.
Facebook groups have algorithms that reward engagement, not connection. And to be honest, not a huge fan of Facebook.
Slack channels feel like work - I still have PTSD about slack notifications from my corporate days.
Instagram DMs feel like networking.
So I'm trying something even simpler.
Something almost aggressively, stupidly simple.
I'm calling it, ready for this? The Table.
I love naming things.
[BEAT]
It's not a community platform. It's not a course. It's not a membership.
It's just... a table.
A digital table. Which sounds like a contradiction. But here we are.
Here's how it works:
It runs on email. Just email.
Email. That thing your parents use. That thing with zero dopamine hits and no like button.
No apps. No feeds. No metrics. No posting requirements.
No gamification. No streaks. No "you're falling behind" notifications.
Some weeks, I'll send an email. A question someone raised. A short reflection. A thought that doesn't need commentary.
Maybe something funny. Maybe something weird. Maybe a story about a shoot that went sideways. Maybe venting about a client who makes me want to quit photography all together.
Maybe just: "Has anyone met a Leica owner who didn’t tell you they owned a Leica in the first five minutes of talking to them?"
Some weeks, there's nothing. And that's not a failure. That's the design.
Silence is allowed. Lurking is encouraged. You're not required to have thoughts. Sometimes you're just... there.
You can reply to the group. You can reply privately. You can not reply at all.
You can send a single emoji. You can write three paragraphs. You can just forward it to someone else who needs to read it.
Nobody is "behind." Nothing gets buried. Nothing demands attention.
It's email. The lowest-stakes communication format we have. And it’s beautiful. It’s a long chain of madness.
It's closer to passing notes across a table than participating in a forum.
Except the notes are sometimes about creative existential dread or failure. And sometimes about the best kind of whiskey. And sometimes about whether Wes Anderson is overrated.
It's a pub table. But everyone's wearing sweatpants. And nobody has to drive home.
[PAUSE]
And here's the important part:
This is not for everyone.
This is for people in the long middle. People who've done the work, who know the craft, who aren't beginners, but something feels off. Lonely. Undefined.
People who are tired of performing. Tired of hiding. Tired of the hierarchy.
People who want to talk about the real stuff—but also want to share dumb memes about histogram anxiety.
People who can hold space for both "I'm struggling with creative identity" and "I just spent 20 minutes arguing with myself about lens caps."
If that sounds like you, if you want a seat at The Table, just email me. The address is in the show notes.
There's no "join now" button. There's no landing page. There's no automation.
Just: email me, and I'll add you.
Subject line: "I'd like a seat." That's it. That's the whole email.
Or write me a novel. I don't care. I read everything.
[BEAT]
Now, I need to be clear about something.
This doesn't replace the work of building your own table.
This doesn't replace reaching out to one person in your city and having coffee.
This doesn't replace showing up without your costume and being vulnerable.
The Table is just... one table. My attempt at building a Third Space.
It's my weird experiment in seeing if email—boring, old, reliable email—can be a place where creative people stop performing and start connecting.
Will it work? I have no idea. Maybe five people will sign up and we'll just send each other pictures of our dogs. I will send a photo of Loki the Border Collie to anyone who asks.
But maybe it'll be more than that. Maybe it'll be the thing some of us need. Or maybe it wont, who knows.
But you still have to build yours.
This can be part of it. But it can't be all of it.
[PAUSE]
With all that being said, here is what I know, you can't outsource belonging.
You can't scroll your way to community.
You can't consume your way to connection.
You have to show up. In person. Vulnerable. Without the armor.
That's the only way.
[BEAT]
But it's worth it.
Because when you find your people—when you find the two or three humans who actually see you, who witness the work, who understand what you're trying to do—everything changes.
Not because they fix your problems.
But because you're not alone anymore.
You're Joshua Bell in the subway, playing a Stradivarius—but this time, someone stops to listen.
Not just for five seconds. But for the whole piece.
And when you finish, they don't just applaud.
They say: "Yeah. I've been there too."
[PAUSE]
The pub table exists. But only if we build it.
One conversation at a time.
One honest admission at a time.
One person brave enough to go first.
If you want a seat at my table, email me.
If you want to build your own table, reach out to one person this week.
Either way, stop waiting for permission.
[BEAT]
This is the end of The Long Middle series. Four episodes. Four weeks.
The Island. The Costume. The Enemy. The Third Space.
Thank you for being here. Thank you for listening. Thank you for letting me think out loud about this stuff.
If these episodes resonated with you, share them with someone who needs to hear them.
And if you want to keep the conversation going, you know where to find me.
Stay curious. Stay courageous. And yeah—stay terrible.