Personal Statement
Personal Statement Hi. I’ve written sixteen drafts. None of them sound like me. I’ve written sixteen opening hooks. None of them sound like me. I cover my eyes as I click DELETE again. The sight is just too painful. Hours of writing, and I’m back at square one, staring blankly at an empty word document. It is two in the morning, and needless to say, I’m tired. At the moment, I need something clever, something to hook the reader with. But my audience isn’t a fish. Plus it is late, and I lack the energy to continue trying to be clever and cute. The reader will just have to understand that I don’t talk in metaphors or begin my daily conversations with clever anecdotes. I put my fingers to my keyboard and type the most straightforward opening I can think of. Hi.
I’m not trying to be Shakespeare; I don’t throw around big words. I’m not trying to be Socrates; I have no keen philosophical insights to offer. But after reading my sixteen drafts, one would get the wrong impression. Through my witty attempts to elevate and fluff my writing, I hid my own style, settling for a one that sounded both foolish and forced. I write about Socialism and invent bizarre stories only Lewis Carol can understand. I don’t do well with constricting topics. I never have.
It was my seventh grade summer, and I had registered for a creative writing seminar. That July I spent thirty-five hours a week hidden in a windowless trailer set in the heart of rural Maryland. There I sat, staring at the burgundy colored walls lined only with motivational posters. Every class began the same way, with brainstorming. Somehow I was expected to convert my thoughts into words with only the aid of a picture of Mount Everest and the word “Success.” Mr. Scriven, our teacher, cared about the class very little and taught us even less. Excluding lunch, we had two fifteen-minute breaks, one in the morning and one in the afternoon; the rest of the day was spent
I’m not trying to be Shakespeare; I don’t throw around big words. I’m not trying to be Socrates; I have no keen philosophical insights to offer. But after reading my sixteen drafts, one would get the wrong impression. Through my witty attempts to elevate and fluff my writing, I hid my own style, settling for a one that sounded both foolish and forced. I write about Socialism and invent bizarre stories only Lewis Carol can understand. I don’t do well with constricting topics. I never have.
It was my seventh grade summer, and I had registered for a creative writing seminar. That July I spent thirty-five hours a week hidden in a windowless trailer set in the heart of rural Maryland. There I sat, staring at the burgundy colored walls lined only with motivational posters. Every class began the same way, with brainstorming. Somehow I was expected to convert my thoughts into words with only the aid of a picture of Mount Everest and the word “Success.” Mr. Scriven, our teacher, cared about the class very little and taught us even less. Excluding lunch, we had two fifteen-minute breaks, one in the morning and one in the afternoon; the rest of the day was spent