Ambition is a peculiar thing. As creatives, we need it, like oxygen or any other foundational building block. The spark, drive, catalyst, or passion, like a shadow, these things can both haunt us and push us to our creative extremes. But sometimes our ambition, if overloaded or unrealistic, can hold us back or keep us from making progress.  

In photography, overambition takes the form of grandiose project ideas or unrealistic timelines. We live in an age of instant gratification and creative, get rich quick schemes aimed at building a following or going viral. These methods can steer ambition away from the work itself toward unattainable results, forcing the photographer to compromise on the most important things, such as patience, practice, thoughtfulness, research, and planning.  

I can speak about overambition in photography because I’ve been a victim of it numerous times. My dreams are far grander than my reality, so to speak. I do things like envision a multi-year project of sizable scale, only remotely achievable if it were the only item on my to-do list, but something completely unrealistic based on my day-to-day reality. Instead of coming to my senses and planning something far more digestible, I forge ahead regardless and then act puzzled when the wheels come off. Yep, that’s me. 

After nearly forty years in photography, I should know better. You could say you admire my tenacity, but when the goal is unreachable, that tenacity is mostly wasted energy and resources.  

So, how am I learning to deal with this? By finding small victories inside the larger creative plan. For example, I love to teach. Most of the time, my teaching revolves around photography and photography books, big surprise. My teaching takes me to places like Albania, Japan, Morocco, Hong Kong, and Patagonia. I try to photograph while teaching, but this is mostly futile because my primary job is to make sure students have what they need, and this is where overambition arrives.  

I know I can’t work like I need to work to produce something serious, but I always convince myself, “Maybe there’s a chance.” (Delusional.) Then, I arrive in the country and quickly realize my mistake. Believe me, this is no hardship because watching a student succeed is far more enjoyable and more entertaining than personal success. After annoying myself for the umpteenth time, I came up with a plan: little victories. Small idea, small stories, and small books. Chapters within the larger book of life.  

Narrowing the scope

I first tested this plan while teaching in Morocco in the fall of 2025. I knew I would visit the small town of Chefchaouen, also known as “The Blue Pearl.” These days, this small city on a hillside can be overrun with Instagrammers, but I also knew if I got out early, I’d most likely have the city to myself. So, before I left for Morocco, I planned to create a small zine based on one early morning shoot in Chefchaouen. 

I knew my timeline and the style of image I was after, and when the time arrived, that is precisely what I did. I grabbed my trusty Fujifilm X100VI and shot my story. It worked. In the hour and a half I dedicated to the project, I was able to produce a small body of related photographs, all verticals, that fit a softcover 6×9, perfectly. The Blue Pearl zine was born.

Repeating the system 

In May of 2026, I tried this technique once again, this time while teaching in Japan. I did not have a specific city in mind, so this time I gave myself an assignment: Shoot one diptych per day. 

A diptych is two related images presented side by side. I knew I could produce two related images per day. Not only did it work, but it was a new way of seeing and forced me to regard my images and storytelling differently. I needed to switch my thinking from making single images that merged into one, longer story to making image pairs that may or may not tell a story, but would give an overall flavor of Japan.  

One diptych per day over two weeks would be ample material for another zine. I chose the same format and ingredients, a softcover 6×9 with Standard Color paper. 

Is there a larger story at play? One that connects all the work I’ve done over all those years of exploring the world? Yes, but that’s a project for another distant day, and that story does not yet have an ending. 

Now you try it

These mini stories and zines provide an invaluable service, at least to me. They are definable, realistic, attainable, and they provide a sort of creative hope. This might sound melodramatic, but even after all these years of photography, it still feels wonderful to feel like I’m making progress. 

The zine does not need to be grand. It does not need to win awards or rack up likes or prove anything to anyone. It just needs to exist. That’s the whole point. When you hold a finished zine in your hands, something you planned, shot, and printed, that feeling is real in a way that a folder of unsorted digitals never will be.

So give yourself an assignment. One morning. One neighborhood. One roll. Narrow it down until it feels almost too small, and then make it anyway. You might be surprised what shows up.

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Dan Milnor is a photographer, storyteller, and educator who has spent decades exploring the world with a camera. He writes about photography, books, and the creative life for Blurb. Sign up for his monthly dispatches from the field.