For a while now, I’ve been observing a phenomenon that, frankly, has grown beyond a mere trend and morphed into a pervasive cultural expectation. It’s the insistent whisper – or often, a shout – that everyone needs to be a content creator.
Everywhere I look, from my social feeds to casual conversations, people are diving headfirst into the content business as if it’s the only path to relevance or success. And frankly, it’s a premise I’ve openly challenged in previous commentaries.
My conviction remains: not everyone is cut out for this game, and the landscape is now littered with the digital detritus of well-intentioned but ill-suited attempts.
It’s not just about the sheer volume, though that’s certainly a part of it. The sheer quality, or rather, the bewildering lack thereof, is what truly confounds me.
I often find myself scrolling through platforms like TikTok or YouTube, staring blankly at content that pulls millions of views, scratching my head and wondering, “What is it that people find so utterly fascinating about this?” There’s a distinct disconnect between what I perceive as valuable, articulate content and what the algorithms champion.
It’s disorienting, to say the least. But amidst this cacophony of digital noise, one specific technical flaw has become so glaring, so utterly distracting, that I simply cannot ignore it any longer: the ubiquitous jump-cut edit.
For those unfamiliar, allow me to paint a picture. Imagine watching someone speak directly to the camera. They say a few words, and then – bam! – the picture instantly, jarringly, jumps forward. It’s a sudden, often disorienting shift, indicating that a snippet of video has either been removed or something has been spliced in. Think of that classic Simpsons episode where Homer is framed by a ridiculously bad edit: “Her... sweet... can.... ahhhhhh.” That’s the essence of jump-cut editing: piecing together words, sentences or entire thoughts, often to conceal gaffes or streamline rambling.
Generally, it’s the digital equivalent of a speaker tripping over their words, mumbling or losing their train of thought, and then having a magical rewind button to make it all disappear. And it happens far too often for me to take seriously many of these so-called “creators."
Why, you ask? (And if you didn't, ask me. And if you don't, I'm telling you, anyway.)
Because, to me, every jump-cut is a glaring admission of failure. It screams that the person on screen couldn’t articulate their point coherently on the first, second or even tenth try. It signifies an inability to deliver a cohesive thought without resorting to post-production surgery. And when this digital surgery is performed every two or three sentences, I can’t help but wonder about the staggering amount of time wasted in the editing suite, time that could have been far better spent on preparation.
Let’s consider the real world for a moment.
Picture a face-to-face conversation. No cameras, no fancy software, just two people interacting. When you’re explaining your point of view or recounting your weekend, you get one shot. You deliver your thoughts in real-time, in one take. There are no “do-overs.” Sure, you might pepper your speech with a few natural “uhs” or “ums” as your brain catches up to your mouth, or as you grasp for the precise word, but you keep going. You push through because that’s how genuine human communication works. It’s raw, it’s authentic and it’s inherently imperfect. It’s real life.
So, when I watch someone set up their camera in their bedroom (hopefully with the door closed so their parents don't interrupt), ready to unleash a passionate rant about a topic they supposedly feel so strongly about, I expect a certain level of verbal dexterity. I expect them to be well-versed in articulating their thoughts. I understand the occasional stumble, the need to restart a sentence – that’s human. But if your three-minute “bedroom rant” video is riddled with a jump-cut every two or three seconds, it’s not an impressive display of your video editing prowess; it’s a damning indictment of your public speaking abilities.
It tells me you’re not a presenter. You’re an assembler.
You might be adept at splicing and dicing footage, but you are demonstrably not someone who should be front and center, delivering direct-to-camera content. Think about the economics of time: if your three-minute video requires more than 10 minutes of editing, you’re doing something fundamentally wrong.
If you’re spending over an hour in post-production for such a short piece, let me be blunt: you are profoundly inept at speaking on camera. Your time would be exponentially better spent rehearsing, structuring your thoughts, mastering your delivery and learning to speak fluently, rather than spending the rest of your day trying to digitally salvage a fragmented performance.
As a viewer, I genuinely enjoy hearing diverse points of view. I relish the exchange of different opinions and ideas. But when it comes to YouTubers or content creators who produce videos that feel more like twitchy, disembodied audio than coherent visual experiences, my engagement plummets. I find myself almost unable to watch the video; I have to avert my eyes and just listen because the constant, jarring visual jumps lose my attention entirely. My mind immediately shifts from your message to a speculative game of “What did they cut out?” or “How badly did they mess up that last take?” It breaks the illusion, shatters the flow and utterly undermines any perceived authority or expertise you might be attempting to project.
This isn’t just a stylistic nitpick; it’s a critique of a deeper misunderstanding of communication.
The impulse to create video content is strong but the assumption that video is the only or best medium for every message is flawed. I find myself increasingly reminding people that not everything needs to be on video these days. Some ideas, some stories, some opinions, are perfectly suited for audio-only formats, like podcasts, where the natural ebb and flow of speech, complete with pauses and the occasional self-correction, is accepted and even valued as authentic. (So many video podcasts are boring to watch. Why do I need to see people sitting and talking into long penis-like microphones for an hour?)
Others are best conveyed in written form, allowing for precise language, detailed argumentation and thoughtful revision without the disruptive visual cues of editing.
And then, there’s the final, crucial category: some things, some thoughts, some opinions, are simply best kept to yourself.
The content landscape is evolving rapidly but the fundamental principles of clear, articulate communication remain immutable. If your primary contribution to the digital sphere relies on a digital sleight of hand to mask an inability to speak naturally, perhaps it’s time to reconsider your medium, hone your craft, or perhaps, simply acknowledge that the camera and microphone aren’t your natural allies. The internet doesn't need more jump-cuts; it needs more genuine, thoughtful and coherent voices. And sometimes, fewer voices altogether.
As they say, "Don't quit your day job." Seriously. Your life as a wannabe "influencer" won't last forever. You will, at some point, need to get a "real" job again.
You're welcome for the life advice.