It occurred to me the other day that – legalities aside – being a photographer is a lot like being a serial killer. No, really.
There is an ongoing compulsion to get out and do what you love, no matter what. The cost doesn’t matter. The inconvenience doesn’t matter. The distances involved don’t matter. The marital strain doesn’t matter.
We carefully select and stalk our subjects, sometimes picking them years ahead. We can be quite ruthless when we finally have access.
Like serial killers, we will work close to home if we have to, but we many of us work best in locations removed from where we live.
Oh, and we love our trophies from our adventures (photos for us). Having the photo to relieve the experience is nice, but it is the experience that counts. And as soon as we’re done with one subject and experience we’re already planning the next one.
Like serial killers, nothing stops photographers from doing what we love, either, except age, infirmity, and death. Oh, and legal complications (mostly trespassing issues for landscape photographers).
Yes, I know I’m going to hell after I die (and I am certain it will be filled with Nikon owners).