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A woman recently asked me how she could become a good photographer. I told her I’d let her know how if I ever figure it out for myself. I was joking, but there was truth in it, too.

I have a tortured relationship with photography, just as I do with any kind of creative work. I have a need to create — something which I can’t explain — but I go through predictable cycles. I try to create the beauty or truth that I see in something, and I quickly rage at myself for ever thinking I had the ability to rise to the task.

Then I struggle. I learn more about my equipment. I study different techniques. I experiment and get frustrated with failure. I spend ridiculous amounts of time in Lightroom and Photoshop. After all that work, I finally create a photo that represents a glimmer of what I had hoped to make. I feel exuberant for a few minutes.

And then I notice every little detail that’s imperfect about it — and I’m back to doubting whether I’ll ever be a good photographer.

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I’ve been standing in line so long
I’ve been wondering what went wrong
I’ve been weighing the shape of things to come
— Steve Taylor, “Waiting in Line”

All my life, I’ve been waiting for permission. I’ve raised my hand. I’ve waited until I was called on. I eagerly sought approval from whoever was in charge.

At home, I needed my father’s permission to do anything. My world was tightly controlled. I couldn’t even arrange my own drawers or closet as I pleased. He gave me rigid instructions for those things.

At school, I was quiet and didn’t cause problems. I did what I was told, for the most part. I never defied instructions. I learned whatever was placed in front of me, whether it interested me or not. I dutifully spit the information back out on tests. And I waited for the teacher’s approval as proof that I was a good boy.

I’ve recently realized that I’m still waiting for permission, long after I thought I had rebelled and broken free of that programming. I’ve been so proud of being a rebel and not doing things the conventional way. I thought I was free of all that.

But I realize now that I’m still sitting here waiting — for some unknown someone to give me permission to do what I need to do and be the person I’ve always wanted to be.

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Few people intimidate me. I don’t seem to meet many who even impress me. But when I find a woman who intimidates me, I know I’d better pay attention. I might fall in love with her.

It started when I was a young teen. Girls had just been interesting classmates or neighborhood friends until then. And then I met one girl — near the beginning of the eighth grade — who left me nervous and speechless.

The boy who was trained to be socially charming was suddenly a babbling idiot when she was around.

I understand now that this is a common pattern for straight guys. As a boy gets old enough to be attracted to girls, something changes for him. Even if he’s always been confident, this rush of attraction and need overwhelms him. That’s the way it was for me. That’s the way I’ve heard others describe it.

What I didn’t realize was that this intimidation was always going to be the first stage of falling in love with a woman — no matter how old or sophisticated or confident I got.

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