Cutting through the BS
People say that when they read my college application essays, they don't get a real sense of emotion, that it reads like BS. I decided, even though I didn't even intend it as a potential essay to use, I would write something fully from the heart. Now I'm thinking it has potential. Thoughts?
September came, and all the seniors at the high school started to write their college essays.
"What's yours about?"
"Summer camp. I was a counselor."
"Martin Luther King Jr."
"My battle with deadly disease."
"What about you Katherine?"
"I don't know yet."
I sat down at my computer and spread my fingers out on the keyboard. I didn't have a clear picture of what I was going to write, but I was sure that, like usual, inspiration would come flying through my window and smack me upside the head. So, I waited. My vision focused on the tiny blinking cursor of the word processor and nothing came to me. I flexed my fingers and cracked my knuckles on the desk, but still nothing came to me. I twiddled my big toes together and looked at the clock across the room. What on earth should I write to show people who've never met me before what I'm all about? My favorite book wouldn't tell them anything about my personality; it's only my favorite because it makes me laugh so loud and hard that I can't read it in public without being stared at. The people who'd inspired me the most weren't a teacher who taught me to learn or some historical figure from long ago. They were just little people like me, working on their own college essays and not even knowing how incredible they are. For each moment that could say something about me as a person, I could think of fifteen other one second occurrences that would say so much more. I canceled out of the word processor, turned off my computer monitor, and walked away.
For two months, each time I walked past a computer I felt guilty because I wasn't working on my college application essays. I'd drafted two essays, but after a few days I'd scrapped both of them because they didn't feel truthful at all. When I showed them to other people, they said they could tell. One by one, everyone else finished their essays.
Today I sat down at the computer and stretched my fingers out over the keys again. A minute dragged by. I closed my eyes, smiled, and realized something. I could tell you about the time I jumped in to direct the play when the teacher got sick, or how right it felt when I first picked up a video camera. I could tell you that my favorite book is A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole, or that the person who inspires me most is named Sarah, but that's not what'll tell you who I am. Who I am is a teenage girl, sitting at a tea stained desk biting her nails, curling her toes in a threadbare carpet as the sunset paints her bedroom orange, and smiling wider than the Cheshire Cat because she has no idea who she is. All I can say is, I can't wait to find out.
September came, and all the seniors at the high school started to write their college essays.
"What's yours about?"
"Summer camp. I was a counselor."
"Martin Luther King Jr."
"My battle with deadly disease."
"What about you Katherine?"
"I don't know yet."
I sat down at my computer and spread my fingers out on the keyboard. I didn't have a clear picture of what I was going to write, but I was sure that, like usual, inspiration would come flying through my window and smack me upside the head. So, I waited. My vision focused on the tiny blinking cursor of the word processor and nothing came to me. I flexed my fingers and cracked my knuckles on the desk, but still nothing came to me. I twiddled my big toes together and looked at the clock across the room. What on earth should I write to show people who've never met me before what I'm all about? My favorite book wouldn't tell them anything about my personality; it's only my favorite because it makes me laugh so loud and hard that I can't read it in public without being stared at. The people who'd inspired me the most weren't a teacher who taught me to learn or some historical figure from long ago. They were just little people like me, working on their own college essays and not even knowing how incredible they are. For each moment that could say something about me as a person, I could think of fifteen other one second occurrences that would say so much more. I canceled out of the word processor, turned off my computer monitor, and walked away.
For two months, each time I walked past a computer I felt guilty because I wasn't working on my college application essays. I'd drafted two essays, but after a few days I'd scrapped both of them because they didn't feel truthful at all. When I showed them to other people, they said they could tell. One by one, everyone else finished their essays.
Today I sat down at the computer and stretched my fingers out over the keys again. A minute dragged by. I closed my eyes, smiled, and realized something. I could tell you about the time I jumped in to direct the play when the teacher got sick, or how right it felt when I first picked up a video camera. I could tell you that my favorite book is A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole, or that the person who inspires me most is named Sarah, but that's not what'll tell you who I am. Who I am is a teenage girl, sitting at a tea stained desk biting her nails, curling her toes in a threadbare carpet as the sunset paints her bedroom orange, and smiling wider than the Cheshire Cat because she has no idea who she is. All I can say is, I can't wait to find out.