Is the angst that inevitably accompanies essay-writing season justified? Some of it, for sure. After all, when they are done, the rest of the application is more less a piece of cake. Then, when the apps are finally complete, and the last “submit” button pushed, the process really is out of your hands. The whole mindset around this creates anxiety—not just that an entire future hangs in the balance of those 500 words (it doesn’t, but that’s another subject), but also because once the final adjustments have been made, the resume polished to perfection, the last phrase tweaked, the final result may still not be good enough to merit the fat envelope come December or March.
But most of that stress? Let it go. An appropriate amount of guidance is an asset; no one should submit an essay that hasn’t been read by at a minimum one other person. And brainstorming with a writing coach, teacher, or somebody trusted might just uncover that gem of an idea. But submitting oneself to a meat-grinder of a concentrated workshop or pulling a couple of all-nighters “just to get it done” might just compound the very thing you want to avoid. And you won’t find your best work.
Writing should be a pleasure, and for me the first thing that means is that you should do it somewhere you like to be, somewhere you are comfortable. Stretch out and think. This exercise should be contemplative, thoughtful. You’re not on deadline for the New York Times.
Admissions counselors repeatedly say, when asked to unlock the key to the perfect essay, “It should tell us something about you, something we can’t find anywhere else in your application.”
So? Whose favorite topic isn’t him or her self? This is fertile territory.
Then there are the prompts. Putting aside the quirky charms of the University of Chicago essay topics (and the occasional Tufts curveball), most of these are broad, and allow a something-for-everyone approach. The Common App’s five choices include writing about your personal story, an incident involving failure, challenging a belief or idea, a place you love, or an accomplishment. Doable, no? After resisting the temptation to write about your bar mitzvah or the service trip to Guatemala (and do resist those topics), you’re pretty much wide open.
My favorite advice came from an information session at MIT. “Just answer the question,” she said. “We just want to see you answer the question.” She went on to say that MIT’s supplement questions shouldn’t require a student to stay up nights thinking about ways to distinguish themselves through clever twists or hilarious turns of phrase. Just be you.
The second important piece of advice comes from a Wake Forest admissions officer. When you are finished writing, he said, give your essay to someone trusted—someone who really knows you. If they can read it and say, “Yeah, that sounds like you,” then you know you are finished (but still check for typos). This is the essence of all things college essay: It must be you.
Please choose your own topic. Brainstorming is good. Working through doubts is good. Bouncing ideas off of a trusted writing coach, other designated person, etc., is good. Using mom or dad’s idea, no good. Using your guidance counselor’s idea, no good.
Some more great advice, again from MIT (the tech geeks can write!) but what I really like is his inclusion of Kurt Vonnegut’s seven rules for good writing. If you don’t know who Kurt Vonnegut is, he’s a famous American writer. Read him sometime; he’s great. Meanwhile, here are the seven rules:
Find a subject you care about.
Do not ramble, though.
Keep it simple.
Have the guts to cut.
Sound like yourself.
Say what you mean to say.
Pity the readers.
As for the last rule, don’t worry about that one. I’m not even entirely sure what that means. And #4, “Have the guts to cut”—don’t worry about that, either. You have a word count; you will have to cut. So really, there are only five rules. Give your essay a beginning (probably an anecdote of some kind, followed by a statement of purpose), a middle, and a nice conclusion. Use examples that mean something to you.
I was meeting with a student last week about his Common App essay topic. At the end, as he was leaving, he said, “I guess I’m gonna have to go deep.” Yes, son, you are, I said (okay, I didn’t say “son”). But he had the right idea. Go deep, tell the reader why your topic means something to you. Nobody else can do that for you.