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“Wait… is this really the job?”
“This is the job I hate the least.”
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.
Episode 19: "The Job I Hate The Least"
COLD OPEN
It was a lifestyle shoot in Laguna Beach. Yoga wear. Cliffside villa. The brand wanted something that felt "centered" and "strong." Which is marketing speak for: make everyone look hot, but pretend it's about mental health.
The house was absolutely ridiculous. One of those "designed" places—minimalist, white on white, every edge sharp enough to draw blood. Floor-to-ceiling windows that screamed wealth. A place built to look stunning but cost someone their soul and three divorces to finance. A place that looked great in a magazine, but you absolutely didn't want to hang out in.
The crew was stacked. Two gaffers—from what I remember they were both named Kyle or maybe Dan—I can't remember. Both wearing black cargo shorts and pairs of Vans that have seen better days. They were the kind of guys who speak only in words like "stoked" and "dope" but somehow knew their shit.
We had a makeup artist who took herself so seriously she probably required her own NDA. A stylist who honestly was just cool. Her name was Katrina—and she's honestly just a good person.
And then there was the client team. Three tech-bros from Vancouver turned Bay Area-brand-evangelists who used words like "authenticity" while sipping canned coconut water and talking about their "vision."
We were a few hours in. The light was cooperating, finally. Images were looking so good, because, obviously. The models were mid-pose—Warrior II, or maybe Triangle—I know nothing about yoga. The mood was fake-serene, but manageable.
Then I saw her quickly walking to me.
The producer, Katie, shuffled over, clutching her iPad like it was a defibrillator.
"Hey… Patrick… So, um… we have a problem."
I've heard this before. They always say it the same way.
"Okay, what's up?" I ask, in a cool and collected manner.
"The toilet upstairs is overflowing."
I break eye contact and stare off into the bright blue Pacific Ocean.
"How bad is it?" I ask—now speaking very quietly only she can hear.
She whispered back like we were on a drug deal.
"It's bad. Water and… you know what is overflowing. The homeowner's off-grid, we can't reach the cleaner, and the water's… kind of spreading. Can you just… take a look?"
My internal monologue?
Inside my skull, it was absolute chaos. The Anger character from Inside Out was smashing the "WHAT THE FUCK" button like it owed him money. Red lights flashing. Sirens. Emotional arson. Total system overload.
But front and center, holding the mic, was that annoying, well-trained Midwestern voice in my head—the one that's been programmed since birth to be polite no matter what, even while hemorrhaging dignity. That part of me whispered,
"Smile, Patrick. Be helpful. Make it work. They'll like you more if you fix it."
So I smiled like a hostage negotiator trying to get everyone out alive and said,
"Ahhhhh sure. No problem. How bad can it be?" I muttered to myself.
As I turned to go upstairs, I caught both Kyles staring at me. One gave a slow, deliberate shake of the head. The other raised his eyebrows and actually took a step back like I was about to ask for his firstborn. Their message was clear: We lift lights, not shitwater.
The makeup artist didn't blink. Didn't ask what was happening. Didn't look up. Just kept powdering a model's cheekbone like it was a national treasure. If the house caught fire, she'd ask for better lighting.
And the client team? Gone. Poof. Decided it was the perfect time to "run to Starbucks." I swear on everything. They literally stepped over a puddle in the hallway on their way out and still had the audacity to ask the producer:
"Think you'll be back to shooting when we get back? I'm craving a flat white."
At that moment? Anger flipped the table. Joy was crying in a corner. Disgust lit a cigarette. But that damn Midwestern politeness? She just smiled, wiped her hands on an apron made of childhood repression, and said, "I sure hope so."
So I went upstairs. To hell.
The hallway smelled like eucalyptus and despair. Water was already bleeding through the baseboards. I stepped into the bathroom and saw it: The toilet was bubbling like a cursed cauldron, water rising like it had a personal vendetta against flooring.
So I did what any reasonable person would do. I became Patrick the Plumber.
First: stop the water supply. I found the shut-off valve behind the toilet—that little silver football-shaped knob that's supposed to turn counterclockwise but had apparently been welded in place by years of neglect and coastal humidity. I cranked on that thing like I was trying to open a pickle jar with arthritis.
Nothing.
Plan B: I popped the tank lid off and went full emergency mode. Reached in and pressed down the flapper—that rubber circle thing that seals the bottom of the tank. Clean water, thank God, but still felt like I was performing surgery with oven mitts.
Then I grabbed the float ball—this plastic sphere that's supposed to rise with the water level and shut everything off—and physically held it up like I was making a toast to my own dignity.
The water stopped rising. Thank god.
I stood there, one hand holding a float ball, the other steadying myself over a toilet tank, water now soaking through my shoes while the producer and Kyle and Kyle and some model just stared at me in the hallway.
This is what they don't teach you in school: sometimes your job is literally keeping shit from hitting the fan. Or in this case, keeping shit from hitting the white marble floors of someone's minimalist fever dream.
Fifteen minutes later, the toilet surrendered. The water stopped. I was soaked in sweat and existential regret.
The client came back, drinks in hand, still blissfully unaware, and asked, "Oh nice! Are we back on schedule?"
I didn't kill them. Which, in retrospect, should count as a performance bonus.
We got back to shooting while the producer started mopping. The models hit their marks, the leggings hugged in all the right places, and the sun kissed the deck like it had read the mood board. The final shots were perfect. They'll probably end up in some mall display with soft jazz playing in the background and some 11-year-old boy will deface them with mustaches. No one will know what it cost.
That day, I wasn't just paid to take photos. I was paid to keep Joy in charge while Anger burned down the control room. To solve a crisis, save a shoot, and smile through it like a good little professional.
This is my life. One foot in the creative, one foot in chaos.
And if you're lucky—only one of them ends up ankle-deep in high-end poop water.
Welcome to photography, I guess. Population: idiots who thought this job was about taking pictures.
There's actually a psychological term for this. It's called "Emotional Labor." Coined by sociologist Arlie Hochschild, it describes the invisible effort of managing feelings and appearances in professional settings.
You know. Like smiling while knee-deep in poop water for a brand that preaches wellness.
My name is Patrick. This is The Terrible Photographer Podcast, and today's episode is called, "The Job I Hate The Least."
SECTION 1: THE REALITY CHECK
So let me tell you what photography actually is.
This was last year. A global electronics brand hired me to shoot a product lifestyle campaign. You'd know the name. One of those tech companies with a billion-dollar R&D budget and a legal team that could sue the moon if it infringed on their IP or if I revealed any details in this story, so I'm keeping it relatively generic.
They were launching a sleek new piece of consumer tech—part gadget, part fashion accessory, part status symbol. They wanted the visuals to feel "human," "elevated," and "emotionally charged," which is corporate speak for: make it look cinematic, but don't ask too many questions.
Their agency brought me in because they liked my work, said they wanted "authenticity," and claimed they didn't want another overproduced, soulless campaign.
They did.
It was a two-day shoot. Four locations, talent, stylists, crew, gear. I ran point on everything—production, logistics, scheduling, permits. The kind of job where you basically feel like an air traffic controller more than a photographer - you're honestly just trying to keep planes from colliding.
Day two, halfway through the first setup, the brand manager pulls me aside.
"Hey, so I was thinking... instead of shooting the product with the talent in that coffee shop setting, what if we moved everyone to the park across the street? I think it would feel more... organic."
The producer immediately jumps in: "That would be beautiful, but we'd need permits for the park, and it's 2pm sun outside, we've been lighting it for mid-morning in here. There isn't anyway we could get permits for lighting that quick."
Brand manager: "Oh. Well, what about just adding a few more shots with the product in different hands? Like, close-ups of different people using it?"
Producer: "We could do that, but it would add about two hours to today's schedule, and we'd need to discuss additional usage fees since that expands our talent needs."
And that's how a "quick thought" turns into a fifteen-minute sidewalk negotiation about timelines, budgets, and whether we can magically squeeze in 40% of the remaining shot list before our hard out at 5pm.
But hey—we're professionals. So we adapt, accommodate, and smile through it all.
The good news? They decided to stick with the original plan.
The bad news? This conversation happened three more times that day, with different "quick thoughts" about angles, product placement, and whether we should "maybe grab just a few more setups while we're here."
And that should've been the end of it.
But the real story didn't start until after I delivered the work.
You know, I got into photography to learn about light. Turns out I should've majored in hostage negotiation with a minor in cash flow management.
I sent the final invoice. Net 30 - according to California Law. Clean. Accurate. Creative fee, production costs, licensing. We're talking already tens of thousands of dollars—out of pocket. Floated. Fronted for production costs. Bet on the promise that a Fortune 500 company would actually pay their invoice.
Week one past due date: nothing.
Week two past due date: silence.
Week three past due date: I followed up—polite, professional, like someone still pretending to believe in systems.
Week four: "Hey! Just checking with accounting. Should be any day now!"
It was not.
By week six, I was in full-blown email purgatory. Every message got kicked to someone new: "Oh, it's working its way through the accounting process." "Oh it has to be approved by the CFO because it's over a certain amount." "Wait, we need a revised PO." I'd get CC'd on threads with eight people and no subject line, each reply somehow less useful than the last.
Each one refuses to give any sort of timeline.
Meanwhile—
The campaign launched.
Billboards. YouTube pre-rolls. Instagram ads.
My photos—live, global, monetized.
They were printing money.
I was refreshing my bank account like I was popping in nickels at a Reno Slot Machine.
Fun fact: According to the Freelancer's Union, 71% of freelancers have dealt with non-payment or late payment. So yeah—if your "Net 30" turns into "Net Never," you're not alone. You're just undercapitalized.
At week eight, I sent a final notice. The subject line was not cute. Pointed to my contract, again.
They replied within hours.
Not with payment—just with a delay.
"Hey! Thanks so much for your patience. The payment is in process, just waiting on a signature from finance."
Finance, apparently, was on a month-long spirit journey through bureaucracy.
When the transfer finally cleared, I stared at the deposit like it was a mirage. Not joy. Not victory. Just exhaustion. Just… finally.
People love to romanticize this job. Friends see the attractive models in cool locations. They see you travel to cool spots. They see you with the fancy gear.
But here's the unfiltered truth:
Photography isn't done when you press the shutter.
It's not done when you deliver the edit.
It's not even done when your work goes live and starts making someone else money.
It's done when the money hits your account.
Cleared. Verified. Not pending.
Because in this business, you're not just the artist.
You're the producer. The project manager. The insurance. The bank.
And if you're not careful, the sucker.
So no, I don't want to "circle back next quarter."
No, I won't resend the invoice "one more time."
And no, I don't want your "exposure."
I want the money.
And I want it on time.
But it gets weirder. Because somewhere between the invoice chase and the creative brief, you realize you've become something you never planned on being.
You're a therapist.
Last month, I had a branding session with a small business owner. Supposed to be simple: headshots, some lifestyle shots, maybe a few behind-the-scenes images for her website. Standard stuff. One hour, in and out.
I showed up, we shook hands, I started setting up lights, and she immediately started crying.
Not like, emotional tears. Like, full-blown breakdown.
Turns out, her business partner had just bailed. With half the money. And the client list. And she wasn't sure if she could keep the doors open past Christmas.
So there I am, holding a c-stand, trying to figure out if I should keep setting up or just... sit down and listen.
I chose listen.
For the next forty-five minutes, I heard about her divorce, her ex-partner's betrayal, her fear that she'd wasted five years building something that was never really hers.
And then—this is the kicker—she wiped her eyes, looked at me, and said,
"Okay, let's do this. I need these photos to work. I need to look like I've got my shit together."
We shot for two hours. She was incredible. Confident, warm, genuine. You'd never know she'd been falling apart an hour earlier.
The photos were some of my favorite work that year.
But here's the thing: I wasn't hired to be a counselor. I wasn't trained for it. I don't have a psychology degree or a therapy license.
But in that moment, that's what the job required.
Because photography isn't just about light and composition.
It's about people.
And people are complicated.
They're carrying shit you can't see.
And sometimes, before they can be vulnerable in front of your camera, they need to be vulnerable with you.
So you listen. You hold space. You become whatever they need you to be in that moment.
Even if what they need is someone to witness their breakdown in a corporate office park while your strobes wait patiently in the corner.
There's a reason why some wedding photographers end up doubling as impromptu grief counselors, conflict mediators, or even emotional translators. When a camera shows up, people think they're ready to be seen. But being seen and being witnessed? That's different.
That's not in the shot list.
But it's always part of the job.
SECTION 2: THE CATALOG OF ABSURDITIES
And then there's the gear.
Oh, the gear.
Let me tell you about the day I learned that being prepared and being smart are not the same thing.
This happened last year. A friend called me in a panic. Their nonprofit—an inner-city choir—had a last-minute emergency. The videographer bailed, the performance was that night, and they needed someone to cover it. Not next week. Not tomorrow. In hours.
And because I apparently have a terminal condition called being a fucking nice guy, I said yes.
They were a great non-profit. The kind of group that actually helps people. The kind of people who deserve great work but usually get last-minute favors from overextended freelancers and dudes with gimbals they barely know how to use. I wanted to help. So I jumped in.
Now, for context: I'm a photographer first. Videographer maybe… like fifth. I've worked with insanely talented video crews. I know enough to be dangerous—and just enough to absolutely torch myself when the clock is ticking.
And this clock was ticking loud.
Problem one: gear.
I have two cameras—Canon R5 - the OG and R5c. Gorgeous tools. But the R5 has recording limits, and a live choir performance isn't exactly a stop-and-start production. You miss a cue, you can't yell "cut."
Problem two: lenses.
I own three. A 15–35 for wide establishing shots. A 28–70 that pays my rent. And a 100mm macro for product work and headshots. None of these are long enough to sit discreetly in the back of the church and catch tight coverage on the soloist from 70 feet back.
So I hit ShareGrid in panic mode. Found a Canon C70 and a 70–200 RF. Solid. Fast. Expensive though. $630 after insurance and fees. And I paid the owner extra to deliver it to me immediately. He drove 35 minutes from Carlsbad, through rush hour San Diego traffic, to hand it off in a parking lot like it was contraband.
Then I realized I didn't have enough memory cards to run three cameras.
So I drove to the camera store, George's Cameras here in San Diego. Great store, good people.
Dropped another $380 on two CF Express cards.
Still sweating. Still problem-solving.
When I pulled up to the church, hazard lights on, in the fire lane, throwing gear out of my Subaru hoping it wouldn't get jacked.
It was hot that day in San Diego. Probably one of the hottest days of the year.
The kind of heat where even the stone walls felt like they were radiating anxiety.
I was soaked before I even opened a tripod.
I had 15-20 minutes to set up. That's three cameras, two tripods, balancing a gimbal I hadn't touched in over a year, while pretending I wasn't absolutely losing my mind. I ran up and down aisles, dodging choir moms, tripping over pews, looking like I was trying to defuse a bomb with mittens on.
Then—the real punchline, that still isn't funny.
I forgot about audio.
Completely.
Things you don't need to think about as a stills photographer.
I assumed—hoped—there would be a sound board I could tap into. Some kind of live mix. Lavs, boom, choir mics… anything.
There was none of it.
Just a volunteer sound guy with a subpar PA system meant for room fill and a mic duct-taped to a music stand. The kind of setup you use for Bingo night, not a multi-cam choral production in a church.
So there I was—with a beautifully over-prepared visual rig… and no clean audio. Just room tone. Scratch mic. Echoes.
It was like buying a Ferrari and realizing there's no gas in the tank.
There's a whole subculture of photographers who mistake backup gear for backup self-worth. And I was one of them that day.
This is called the "Just-in-case trap" — a form of anxiety-driven over-prepping where you try to control chaos by sheer gear quantity. Spoiler: it doesn't work. Chaos doesn't care how many Pelican cases you brought.
Wanna hear icing on the cake?
I spent over a thousand dollars that day. Between the rental, rush delivery, memory cards, gas, and time. And I never talked budget. Not once. Because I wasn't thinking like a business—I was in problem-solving mode. Get it done. Be the hero. Save the day.
Except I didn't save the day.
Not really, you know why?
The only usable footage was b-roll—stuff that didn't need synced sound. The actual performance? Beautiful, moving, and utterly unusable. No clean audio. No backup. Just regret echoing off the stained glass.
And to be clear—this wasn't the nonprofit's fault.
They had a problem. They asked.
I said yes.
The wreckage was mine.
Because I didn't ask the right questions.
I didn't set expectations.
And I didn't pause long enough to realize that sometimes, just because you can help, doesn't mean you should.
I walked away with three things:
Some decent b-roll.
And a thousand-dollar invoice with my own name on it.
I paid a $1000 for the fiasco.
And a hard-earned reminder that gear doesn't lie—but hope sure as hell does.
Sometimes, the most expensive jobs are the ones you do for free.
SECTION 3: WHY WE STAY
Sometimes though, something happens that reminds you why you're here.
Not every shoot asks you to be vulnerable.
Most of the time, commercial photography is just that—commercial. Show up. Shoot what's on the deck. Stay on budget. Make sure nobody cries unless the client specifically asked for it. Then pack up, invoice, and move on.
But sometimes… the universe drops you into something…. sacred.
And you either show up for it, or you miss it.
This particular shoot wasn't supposed to be anything heavy. I'd worked with the client before—a company that makes support chairs and mobility devices for kids with disabilities. I'd done a handful of jobs with them already. Standard stuff. Interview the parents. Capture lifestyle b-roll. Get a few stills for case studies.
The kids I'd met up until then had all been thriving—kids with cerebral palsy who were smiling, laughing, learning to sit or stand for the first time thanks to these incredible devices. It was meaningful work, sure, but still structured. Still contained.
This one felt different the moment I walked through the door.
Before I even unpacked, one of the client team pulled me aside.
Quiet voice. Hand on the shoulder.
"Just so you know… this case is more severe. The little girl we're filming… she probably won't make it more than a few more years."
It hit me like a steel-toed boot to the face.
Because I'm not just a photographer.
I'm a dad.
A dad of a daughter.
Empathy ruins you in the best possible way. It makes the job harder—but the work better.
And suddenly I wasn't looking through a lens—I was looking through the terrifying what-if of my own daughter.
I kept my game face on. That's what you do. Stay professional. Stay focused. But something was different that day. I wasn't thinking about campaign objectives or product positioning. I honestly, didn't give a shit at that point. I was thinking about what this family would want to have forever.
So I documented everything.
Not just the product shots. Not just the testimonials.
Everything.
Mom reading to her daughter.
The way she brushed the girl's hair back behind her ear.
A quiet smile exchanged while she's brushing a piece of silk fabric on her arm.
I shot more than anyone asked for.
Way more.
Because in that moment, I wasn't trying to impress a client.
I was trying to leave this family with evidence—of love, of dignity, of presence.
I delivered the job as requested. They got what they needed. But I also sent the family everything I had. Every frame. Every second of footage. Not for credit. Not for a portfolio. Just because… it's what I would want. If the roles were reversed.
A year later, the little girl passed away.
I don't talk about that shoot often. But when I question this career—when the invoices are late, or the clients are clueless, or I'm stuck editing a campaign I don't believe in—I think about that day. That family. That moment.
That's when I remember what this actually is.
This isn't just a job.
This is a gift.
And the camera doesn't just capture what's in front of it.
It captures what's behind it too—the heart, the intention, the humanity of the person holding it.
That day reminded me:
The best work doesn't come from hiding who you are.
It comes from bringing all of it with you.
Even the parts that hurt.
Even the parts that scare you.
Even the parts that make you question whether you're strong enough to witness what's in front of you.
Because sometimes, being a photographer means being present for the most important moments in someone else's life.
And if you're lucky—if you're really, really lucky—you get to help them remember it forever.
That's worth the invoice chasing.
That's worth the gear failures.
That's worth the existential crises and the identity confusion and the constant question of whether you're actually making a difference.
Because you are.
One frame at a time.
One family at a time.
One moment at a time.
And sometimes, that's enough to keep you going for another year.
CLOSE: THE CHALLENGE
So, I think I've got a mostly healthy, mostly holistic understanding of what this job actually is.
Most days, I know that photography isn't about beautiful light or perfect pixels. Not really. It's about problem solving. That's the real gig. The light, the color, the moment—that's the payoff. But everything leading up to that? It's people, gear, time, money, parking, expectations, mood management, and the quiet art of not losing your shit in front of a client.
And the truth is—on most days—I kind of hate that part.
But it also keeps me coming back.
Because those headaches, those logistical migraines, they're what make the good jobs feel like magic. The ones where you pull up and there's parking out front. Where the client is chill, the shot list makes sense, and someone hands you the exact coffee you asked for the night before. Where the crew's laughing, not complaining. Where the work feels more like a group project with your friends than a commercial assignment with deliverables and timelines.
That's the goal, right?
More of that.
More jobs that fill your tank. Fewer that set it on fire.
And the only way to get there is to keep learning.
So, you ask better questions.
You plan harder.
You set clearer expectations.
You learn where the tripwires are and start walking around them.
But even then—shit still goes wrong.
Clients ghost you on invoices like you didn't just save their entire campaign.
Models cancel an hour before call time.
The digitech's laptop decides today is the day it dies.
Your camera bricks mid-shot and suddenly your backup becomes the hero.
Things happen. That's the only constant.
So you breathe.
You stay calm.
You focus on solutions, not blame.
And you're kind - understanding that other people don't know what you know. They don't know unspoken rules. They are just trying to live their life. And all of our lives are hard.
And—this one's been the hardest for me—you learn to say no.
Because people will ask the world of you.
And sometimes, you'll give it to them. You'll overdeliver. You'll solve problems no one saw coming. You'll pick up coffee because your assistant overslept. You'll plunge a toilet at a shoot like it's part of your day rate.
But you can't do that every time.
There's a limit.
There has to be.
Because being a photographer means being a leader.
And being a leader means you're the one who deals with the shit—literally and metaphorically. You're the one who shows up first, solves the puzzle, keeps the energy right, and takes the hit when things fall apart.
That's what you're actually being paid for.
The images?
They're just the receipt.
So here's what I want you to do this week.
Stop pretending this job is sexy.
Stop apologizing for the fact that most of your time is spent on things that aren't photography.
Own the fact that you're running a small business that occasionally produces art.
And maybe, just maybe, you'll find yourself laughing at the beautiful absurdity of it all instead of crying into your unpaid invoices.
Because here's the secret nobody talks about:
Every photographer you admire has plunged a toilet.
Metaphorically, if not literally.
They've all chased invoices, dealt with impossible clients, and questioned whether this whole thing is worth it.
The difference between the ones who make it and the ones who don't isn't talent.
It's stubbornness.
It's audacity.
It's the ability to show up tomorrow even when today was a complete fucking disaster.
It's finding humor in the chaos instead of letting it destroy you.
And it's remembering that somewhere between the administrative bullshit and the technical problems, you occasionally get to capture something really beautiful.
Something real.
Something that matters.
"We are here to laugh at the odds and live our lives so well that Death will tremble to take us." — Charles Bukowski
This is the job that I hate the least.
And honestly?
That might be the most romantic thing I've ever said about photography.
Stay courageous, Stay Curious and yeah, Stay Terrible.