The first camera I owned held thirty-six frames. Not thirty-six hundred, not a card that could take a thousand and still have room. Thirty-six. You learned to count.
Because you counted, you waited. A man on a bicycle would come up the road and you would decide, before he arrived, whether he was worth one of the thirty-six. Most of the time he was not, and that decision was the work.
I have a card in the camera now that holds four thousand frames, and I still shoot as though it holds thirty-six. Two frames of anything, and then stop and look at what is behind me. The second look is usually the better picture, and it costs nothing.
The waiting is not a technique. It is the part of the day I remember.