So you wanna be a comedian with any potential mass relevance in the age of TikTok, Instagram Reels, and YouTube Shorts? Then, kid, you’re gonna have to constantly post clips of yourself. We’re talkin’ multiple times a week, every week, for the rest of eternity, or until societal collapse means we can say “fuck the internet” and just work the road like normal again.
Now, unless you have the disposable income to hire some enterprising film school student off Fiverr, you’re going to have to do this editing yourself. This may seem daunting. That’s why I’ve put together this handy guide to the emotions you’ll feel as you chop up your art for mass consumption by the algorithm.
1. Denial
You’ll think “all I have to do is record everything I ever do on stage!” You’ll think “my phone camera is good enough!” You’ll think “there’s no way that people won’t love this joke! I’m going viral today, baby!”
You’ll start editing and realize that the video is grainy, and the audio is shit. Then you’ll think “well a camera can’t cost that much, right?” After looking on Amazon and B&H, you’ll think “I can just get into a little tiny bit of credit card debt. I gotta invest in myself!”
Thousands of dollars later, you’ll drive home from a show, remembering how good your set was, how much the audience loved you, how loud their laughter was. You’ll think, “man, I’m going to edit some clips ASAP!”
2. Anger
Weeks will pass before you listen back to your set from the show. The laughs at your genius riff on that weird-looking dude in the front row and his totally wacky job will be quieter than you remember.
You will scrub through the set looking for any other potentially salvageable moments. You find one. You realize it’s the hackiest joke you have. You’ll think “fuck! My peers are going to think I’m such a hack!” But you will know, deep down, you don’t have a choice. Reducing yourself to the lowest common denominator – that’s the price of fame.
3. Bargaining
Your hard work is done. You’ve used a font that screams “comedy.” You’ve triple-checked the aspect ratio to make sure nothing’s cut off. You’re ready to click the “post” button and submit yourself to the masses.
Ten minutes later, you’ll question why the masses don’t seem to like you. Your video does not have thousands of views in the blink of an eye. It barely has tens of views. And no comments! No shares! You thought the hashtags you chose would be ideal!
“C’mon, if I just get some comments on this, maybe that’ll drive engagement,” you’ll utter aloud in your empty bedroom/office. You used to call that “praying” before you became an atheist in high school. Now, you reach out to a different god.
You’ll consider tagging an influencer, or the company the joke is about, or maybe Elon Musk, before deciding you don’t want to look desperate. You already feel desperate enough, clawing at relevance, afraid that your career will end before it even really gets started.
4. Depression
You’ll check your video again, every thirty minutes, then every ten, then every five. The views will tick up at a glacial pace. Six hours after you post, you’ll get a comment from a member of your extended family who you forgot follows you. “Funny stuff!!!” they’ll say, unhelpfully. It’ll be the only comment the video ever receives.
You’ll lament the fact that you spent four hours yesterday watching YouTube tutorials instead of working on your act. You’ll check the accounts of all the other comics you know who have also been posting clips, feeling a sharp pain right in your ego every time you remember their view counts and follower counts eclipse yours many times over.
You’ll consider asking your boss if you can work some overtime. You’ve got to pay off that credit card soon, because that 30% APR is going to bite you in the financial ass if you let the debt linger.
You’ll wonder if you will ever figure out this game you have willingly thrown your life away to play.
5. Acceptance
You’ll pay someone $5 to do five minutes in the dingy room they have rented at a strip mall that they have the audacity to call a comedy club. You’ll do your set. It’ll goes fine.
One of your peers will come up to you after and say they liked the clip you posted. They’ll ask if you want to come do a spot on the show they run at a dive bar that’s a thirty minute drive from your apartment complex. You’ve heard it is one of the worst shows in the city, but it is somehow an institution.
You’ll graciously accept. You’ll go back to your car, celebrating the small victory of getting another chance.
Back at home, you’ll decide to post the shitty crowd work clip. Those always do well, anyway.
Well said and accurate take. I want to complain but my Premier Pro membership expires in 2 days and I have some shitty crowd work clips that need captioning. Thanks for writing this!