Who Are You Making This For?

Maybe the question isn’t “am I ready to make a photo book?” Maybe it’s “who the hell am I making this for?”

Photographers love to turn simple shit into a ceremony.

A zine becomes a “body of work.”

A small book becomes a “project.” Suddenly you need a concept. A statement. A theme. A perfect edit. A reason. And before you know it, you’ve talked yourself out of making the damn thing.

I’ve done it too. You start thinking:

“Do I have enough photos?”

“Are they good enough?”

“Do they belong together?”

“Is this actually a project?”

“Am I ready?”

Maybe that’s the wrong question.

Maybe the real question is: Who are you making this for?

That answer clears up a lot.

If It’s For You, The Rules Are Pretty Loose

If you want to make a little zine for yourself, make it.

If you want to print fifteen copies for friends, make it.

If you want to throw thirty photos into something cheap and stapled because they mean something to you right now, make it.

You don’t need a publisher. You don’t need a gallery. You don’t need permission. And you sure as hell don’t need the work to be “complete.”

Because what does complete even mean?

I photograph the ocean. My kids. Friends. Travels. Parking lots. Signs. Surfing. Random corners of San Diego.

Whatever catches my eye.

When is that finished?

It isn’t. That’s life. You keep shooting it.

The Project Might Never End

This is probably the part we screw up the most.

We think a book has to be the finish line.

It doesn’t. Maybe it’s just a marker. This is where the work was in 2026. This is what I cared about. This is what kept showing up. This is what I thought was worth printing.

That’s enough. Then you keep going. Make another one later. Maybe the photos are better. Maybe they’re worse. Maybe your style changes completely. Maybe you’re still photographing the same damn beach five years from now.

Good. Now there’s a record of it.

Who It’s For Changes the Edit

If the book is for you, put the weird shit in. Put in the photo nobody else understands. Put in the boring frame that reminds you exactly what that afternoon felt like. You don’t need to explain every photo. You don’t need to make every image impressive.

It’s yours.

If you’re making it for other people, maybe you cut harder. Maybe the sequencing matters more. Maybe you need context. Maybe some photos get left out.

Fine. That’s the job. But don’t confuse editing with waiting. You can edit something now without declaring it finished forever.

Print Changes Things

There’s also something that happens when you actually print the work.

The bullshit gets exposed.

A photo you loved on a screen suddenly does nothing. A random frame you barely cared about suddenly holds the whole sequence together. You start seeing patterns. You notice repetition. You see what you keep coming back to. Sometimes you don’t understand the project until you’re staring at twenty prints spread across the floor.

That’s part of it. The book isn’t just a place the project ends up. Sometimes the book is how you figure out what the project was in the first place.

So, Are You Ready?

Probably.

Not because the work is finished. Not because you’ve earned it. Not because somebody gave you permission.

You’re ready when you know why you want to make it and who you want to hand it to.

That’s enough to start. Make the cheap zine. Make the nice book.

Staple it yourself. Spend too much money printing it.

Make mistakes. Leave in a photo you regret later.

Who cares? Make another one.

The work keeps moving anyway. Maybe that’s the whole point.

A photo book doesn’t have to say:

This is everything.

Sometimes it just needs to say:

This is where I was.

— Brendan