The Handbook / Chapter 8
Writing
Your writing can work magic. It can transform an overworked reader into an advocate in an instant. It can make up for less than stellar grades and sub-stratospheric test scores. I’ve witnessed it more than once. One story in particular comes to mind.
During the Covid lockdown, a student began having difficulty staying current with assignments. Grades suffered. They tried various strategies with little success. Never very social, the student felt isolated and depressed. They turned to a learning specialist who identified a previously undiagnosed learning difference. With treatment, the student began to improve academically and emotionally. While classmates limped along, this student began to emerge as a class leader.
They wrote without shame about the relief felt to discover they were not unintelligent, as feared. A poor transcript showed dramatic improvement and their writing revealed unmistakeable courage. They were accepted to their dream school.
~ ~ ~
Starting out, students will tell me they’re bad at writing. I wonder if what they mean is inexperienced. How would you know, I ask, if you’re any good at something unless you’ve tried a few times and failed? They reply, no. They’re just bad.
It is possible. But what’s more likely is they’re neither terrible nor great, that they’re part of the great swath of us in the middle who are capable of good, sometimes even entertaining, prose so long as we put in the necessary time and effort. Months later they will happily admit they were wrong. They didn’t know they had it in them.
Part of that comes from learning some basic rules and following them unfailingly. You have studied your share of English over the years and already know some of this. It bears repeating.
The best teacher of writing is reading, lots and lots of it. If you love reading, if you have experienced actual cravings— I’ll be down in a minute!— you have all you need to maximize whatever talent you possess. Yes, I know, you’re very busy and have no time to read anything except what you are assigned and will be tested on. But once that bug has bitten, you somehow find the time. You can’t remember what you used to do with the time you now fill devouring novels. Turning a chore into a pleasure makes all the difference. And the most important tests aren’t given in school.
Students are rarely enthusiastic in the beginning. There’s the usual nothing-interesting-has-ever-happened-to-me complaint. Students are sure they’re uniquely devoid of a story worth telling. We learn that they’re wrong about this too. Every time.
The importance of practice can’t be overstated. Writing is no different from, say, skateboarding in that respect. Nobody lands a Backside 180 on their first try. Writing an essay will result in some falls and emotional bruises early on but it gets easier with time. For the record, I said easier, not easy, because it is never easy.
There’s also the high school writing problem. Most students have come to despise the process. Mention writing to the average 11th grader and they wince. It’s heartbreaking. Writing has come to mean a stint in solitary confinement, a joyless chore. They will do anything to avoid it. I tell them not to give up hope. Sometimes they believe me.
This only changes when they begin to write about their own lives. They experience a satisfaction they haven’t felt since they were a child. It doesn’t matter how long the feeling has been dormant. They instantly remember how good it feels to get what’s inside out.
Words on a page have a gravity that spoken words don't. Written words nag you if you make them say anything other than exactly what you mean. They won’t be put off. They demand that you rewrite them as many times as it takes until they perfectly mirror your beliefs. By then they are strong enough to convince a stranger that you are worth taking a chance on. They will fight to the death for you. They’ll bring forgiveness. A job. A spot in the freshman class. They are worth every drop of sweat you invest in them.
Simplicity
Let’s return to the skateboarding example. Before you can attempt the tricky stuff you first have to get the basics down. Mount the board. Find your stance. Get balanced. Push off with your back foot. Get moving.
Writing is no different. We should start with simple sentences. Two words, a noun and a verb, are all that’s actually required but include what else you think is important. Get moving. Keep your balance.
I wasn’t myself.
This is the first sentence of a personal statement from a student who had an undiagnosed ailment for years until a doctor unraveled the mystery and provided a cure. The student spoke these three words in conversation and I was immediately struck by their blunt power. I could hear in it the student’s certainty that something was wrong despite the lack of medical corroboration. I knew it would grab the reader and throw the student forward into the story. I asked her to write it at the top of the page. It never left.
Who will hear you unknowingly speak the perfect first line of your essay, identify it as such, and make sure you write it down? If you have someone, keep them close. If not, you may have to play that role yourself. It’s difficult but not impossible. Be on the lookout for your own brilliance. And simplicity. And please, when in doubt write it down. When you check it tomorrow you’ll know better.
I know how to move.
This sentence began an essay on how kids of divorced parents need to travel light. It was originally buried in the fourth paragraph but, again, I felt its potential to unleash what would become a moving piece on the emotional strain of divorce. By outlining the many workarounds and life hacks she had developed through the years, the writer steered clear of self-pity and left the reader raw and admiring of the writer’s resourcefulness.
Economy
Among the young writer’s most common misconceptions is thinking that the longer the sentence the greater the meaning. I try to disabuse them of this with the following challenge:
ME: Who is Usain Bolt?
THEM: Fastest man alive.
M: What does he carry during a race?
T: (pause) A baton?
M: Usain runs the 100m, not relays.
T: His number?
M: That’s pinned to his shirt.
T: Shoes?
M: I think they’re on his feet.
T: Nothing?
M: He carries nothing. It would only slow him down.
A sentence is like a sprint, I tell them. The writer has a thought to get across as efficiently and swiftly as possible. If a word helps, it’s a step toward the finish line. If a word is unnecessary, it slows the progress. I’ll illustrate by adding words to the preceding sentence.
If a word is completely unnecessary, it slows down the writer’s progress.
If a word is completely unnecessary, it slows down the writer’s progress.
If a word is unnecessary, it slows the progress.
This is perhaps my most important job— removing dispensable words. On average I omit half. Comparing the original and the edited versions of the essay is like the before and after photos in a weight loss advertisement. Over time students learn to avoid the empty calories and stick to protein and fiber. And spice.
A successful writer knows that rereading is a mandatory exercise. While you should afford yourself the thrill of a furious first draft composed in a whirlwind of pure adrenaline and the belief it’s perfect as it is, you should demand of yourself the discipline to return to it and make it better. Trimming needless description. Striking annoying redundancy. Exiling the cliche. Justifying every sentence.
At the start, a 650-word goal seems impossibly large. And it feels counterproductive to eliminate words when trying to reach it. When the meaning begins to clarify, however, like a stream cleared of mud and debris, students open their minds to a new concept. By stripping each sentence, they create a clear and flowing essay that keeps the reader interested and engaged. Before long they worry that 650 words might be too few rather than too many. That’s when I know I’m getting through to them.
Vocabulary
There are more than 200k English words currently in use. We use about a tenth of that number with any frequency. You should employ words with which you are comfortable and accustomed to using. No verbiage is as loathsome as inculcating your readership with superfluous ornamentation.
You get the joke.
New writers will sometimes try to make their writing sound smart by substituting a big word when a small one would work as well or better. This is another advantage of having someone act as your editor. Pull out that weed by the roots before it overtakes the yard.
There are occasions when a less common word can and should be used in lieu of a simpler one. I encourage students to expand their vocabulary not by assigning them lists but by speaking as I would with someone older and better read. When I hear myself use a word with which they might be unfamiliar, I’ll inquire. We then add it, and its definition, to an ongoing list. By the end of our work together, our vocabularies have expanded.
When editing their writing, I’ll sometimes suggest they investigate alternatives in word choice when there’s clearly a better option. But I make them find it. Certain work has to be left to the writer.
We need to also monitor redundancy. Reread your work to see if you’ve used the same word in consecutive sentences. If so, a synonym might be needed. When selecting one, say the sentence out loud to see if the newly substituted word flows as well as the previous one. Just because a word has the same meaning doesn’t guarantee it can be simply swapped in. Consider the sound and rhythm.
Rhythm
Reading is usually a silent activity, but the words are sounded out in the reader’s mind. Ably constructed sentences composed of aptly chosen words are pleasurable to the ear. Sentences manufactured in identical and repetitive fashion, like housing developments, will tire the reader. The written word mimics speech in this way. If the sentences vary in length and shape, depending on their meaning and emphasis, the reader stays interested.
Paragraphs should vary in size as well. If you open a book and the first page contains no paragraph breaks, the sheer density of the text can dissuade you from even getting to page two. Let the meaning of your writing dictate the flow but let some air and light in, as you do for plants in the garden.
Words create rhythm. Have some fun with ‘em.
Adverbs
Adverbs get a bad rap and deserve it. Every one you’re inclined to use should be questioned. See if there’s a better way to construct the sentence without it. I walked quickly down the sidewalk. If the rate at which you walked is important, can you substitute sped for walked and go without? There are a pile of verbs to pick from if sped doesn’t do it for you— trotted, scampered, hurried, jogged. Any one of those verbs will inject energy into the sentence rather than quickly sapping it.
Break yourself of the habit of relying on adverbs. Doing so will lead you to choose more accurate and descriptive verbs. It will also discourage the passivity they bring on. I hurried down the sidewalk will get you there faster than walking quickly will.
Metaphors and Similes
Emily Dickinson told us that “Hope is a thing with feathers”. Had anyone ever described it better? Now I think of birds whenever I hear the word hope. She made us forever understand it with new insight. By connecting two things with essential similarities, she made her reader know both, and each, better.
Our frustrated boss reminds us that time is money. What he means is your time used in service to his profit is money. Your time staring at your phone is not. He means for us to get to work.
Both are using metaphors but there’s an important difference. Ms. Dickinson has joined two things that had never been paired and increased our appreciation of the world in doing so. Your boss dragged out a tired cliche in hope of squeezing a few more pennies out of you before you punch out.
Similes, as you may recall, are similar except in their use of like or as. Forrest Gump’s “Life is like a box of chocolates.” (actually written by author Winston Groom) was a means of communicating life’s uncertain turns. If the reader can be made to tap into the quandary of selecting the right nougat but fearing they won’t, the simile has made the idea come to life.
Author Stephen King in his excellent book, On Writing, cites Raymond Chandler for an example of a truly original simile. “I lit a cigarette that tasted like a plumber’s handkerchief.” No one knows what that flavor is but we know it should be avoided if possible.
Mr. King makes the point, and I agree that we should try our darndest to avoid those stale metaphors and similes that overuse has made cliche.
Try instead to inject some fresh energy into your writing by creating something striking and original. I felt as welcome as a fart in a tent. I’ve made a mental note to rewrite this before publication. If you’re reading it I forgot.
Active vs. Passive Voice
My birthday was celebrated at a pizza parlor downtown.
I celebrated my birthday at a pizza parlor downtown.
Which party sounds more fun? I assume you chose the latter. The celebrant participated in the festivities rather than having just been there when they happened. In the second example, everyone ate pizza, laughed and caroused, and had a swell time. In the first it almost sounds like someone had to hold a slice close to the birthday girl’s mouth or she would have gone hungry. As readers, we are roused by an active voice and put off by a passive one.
Why would anyone use a passive voice then?
Because otherwise you have to know what’s true and say it on the record. You can’t be opinionless.
It’s scary coming right out and saying what happened, who was responsible, and who paid the price. You have to take responsibility. It’s safer keeping it all a bit vague. You won’t be writing fiction, remember, you’ll be recounting the story of a life event. There were other people involved and we’re going to want to know their names. If the story doesn’t unfold in a way we can follow, we’ll lose interest. If we think you’re avoiding telling us something, we’ll stop believing you. And if you don’t tell the truth, we’ll know it and there’s no getting us back after that. Buh-bye.
The other characters in your story may be close friends or family. You won’t want to betray or embarrass them by revealing things they’d prefer kept private. You can hide yourself and others using a passive voice. If what happened just happened then it’s really not anyone’s fault, right? We won’t have to name names, right? Wrong.
You can hide but you can’t write. Not that way. I don’t mean to imply that your topic needs to read like a true crime drama. But whatever it’s about, your story deserves an honest telling in as active a voice as you can muster. Or pick a different topic.
I marvel at students’s willingness to reveal themselves. If telling a story requires admitting hard truths and exposing the unpretty details, most of my kids ante up without hesitation. It’s admirable. They’re brave.
For novice writers I suggest a simple and straightforward voice. Keep the sentences short. Tell us what occurred with as little added opinion as possible. Show the reader what happened rather than tell them. The reader will experience the events for themself and, if you’ve done your job, feel what you felt. In personal essay writing it is essential that your reader feels something, the stronger the better. Your story becomes memorable. You become memorable. Readers will want to share your story with others. Each time they share or retell it, the story will become more durable. Your AO might first read your application in November and need to present it in February. Give them something to remember you by.
I assure you that most of those stories will be forgotten over that four month span. You don’t want yours to be among them. AOs and admissions committees will sometimes assign a mnemonic alias to an application to remind the group. Mystery cure might be one for the student I mentioned previously. Light traveler for the other.
Risk and reward
Have you ever played poker? To win another player’s chips you have to risk your own. By guarding your stack and never playing your hand, you will come away with nothing. Why play?
Writing is similar. To create an effective narrative, you will have to risk something, showing your vulnerability. What will you have at stake? Your safety? Your dignity? Your reputation?
As you consider a topic for your personal statement, picture a scale that spans from no risk|no reward on the left to high risk|high reward on the right. Both extremes are problematic. The far left reads something like:
I am a good person of noble intentions. I act on them. I do loads of admirable things for the community. I win service awards for my selfless contributions to humanity. My picture was in the paper. I feel really good about myself.
The far right isn’t any better. Some years ago the Common App offered as one of its prompts— Where do you feel most comfortable? More than a few brave individuals (with the worst possible judgment) attempted to answer by describing their contentment while seated on the toilet. No, I’m not making that up. As I began reading each death-defying attempt to escape a burning hellscape on laced-together roller skates, I felt a certain admiration for each having undertaken the fatal mission. They all went down in flames. There is no way, at least in my experience, to outsmart that start. I took no pleasure knowing the outcome in advance.
Having ruled out both extremes, how near the center should you aim? It’s impossible to say in the abstract but let’s settle on a few general guidelines.
Failure teaches us more than success. If you have changed as a result of
a painful life lesson, it might make a good essay topic. We know ourselves better when, having confronted our weakness, we have found new strength.
For your reader to invest themself emotionally in your story, you will have to lay yourself bare and offer no excuses. However you behaved, whether selfish, immature, or wrong-headed, you must be a reliable witness and tell the whole truth. Your reader will reward your honesty with respect.
Criminal activity is only to be discussed with your lawyer. Not, I repeat, not in your personal essay.
No one’s first attempt at writing humor should be their personal statement.
The experience you share will be the right one if it 1) contains the necessary story elements, that is, a beginning, middle, and end without embellishment and 2) reveals you in the manner you intend.
There is such a thing as TMI (Too Much Information). If what you offer is likely to offend or upset someone’s sensibilities, reconsider your topic.
Colleges want to know that you know yourself. I can think of no better definition of maturity. Students with self knowledge are more likely to be good citizens of the college, more empathic, better roommates.
I have read thousands of personal essays as an AO and edited hundreds more as a counselor. They have run the gamut on risk|reward scale and varied in quality from ridiculous to beyond sublime. Generalizing here would be of little benefit to you when what you need is one very good story well told.
But I’ll take my chances. I would rather see a student aim too high than low. This is a critical step in your journey and there are a lot of chips riding on the wager. You may be all in. If your choice of topic means the difference in a college knowing who you are or not, I encourage you to tell it.
It demands courage— courage to take inventory of your life and identify those experiences which truly have made you who you are. It takes heat and pressure to make a diamond. It takes a point and a lot of thrust to move an ice breaker through a frozen sea. It takes you, and you alone, to shoulder responsibility for telling your truth and revealing who you are. It is your knowledge of yourself that makes you the perfect, in fact the only, person to do this job.
Think of the Olympic gymnast who, moments prior to the vault, hears the difficulty of the routine announced. The higher the risk, the greater the possible reward for a well executed maneuver. Aim high. You can do this. And where’s the satisfaction in performing a perfect forward roll anyway?
The kind of examination required to unearth a great story can have a second, more significant, consequence. You will be changed in the process. You will know yourself better. Your confidence will grow.
In the next section you’ll have the opportunity to see how eleven students navigated these questions. I’ll take you through the conversations we had that led to the topics chosen. And you can read the essays in which they revealed their truth and placed their faith.
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