"What would you be if you couldn't be a writer?"
I thought about it and replied, "A private eye."
"A detective?"
"Yep, in the 1930's."
"90 years ago? Impossible."
"Oh, it's possible ... because I'm a writer."
So check out my PI website from 1937: R.S. Froth Investigations
“Nope. I’m good.”
I didn’t expect that answer from my daughter.
“But I’m a professional writer. I can help. Even if it’s
just to catch a typo or fix a verb tense.”
“I’m good, Dad.”
She had just told me she had finished the essay to
accompany her college applications. And she didn't want me to look it over.
These are big stakes. The essay is the opportunity to set
herself apart from the other kids who are applying. And her first-choice school
has an acceptance rate of about 20%.
A few weeks ago, she had let me know she had decided her essay's subject. Even though I had suggested she bounce ideas off me, she hadn’t.
I didn’t even know what the essay was about.
And now she wasn't going let me read it before she sent it in.
Goddammit. I could offer her an edge.
I was fuming. The stakes were high and she was making a mistake.
I was about to tell her that, when it sunk in (with help from my wife's side-eye) that I was the one about
to make the mistake.
Instead, I said, “That’s great news. You must be relieved
to have it done.”
She wasn’t telling me she didn’t think my input would help.
She was telling me she wanted to own the win or the loss.
I was so very proud of her.
My ego as a writer took a hit, but it was a big win
for me as a dad.
A month or so later, she was accepted.
I asked to see her essay.
It was good.
I would've made a few suggestions to tighten it up.
That would’ve been a mistake.
I’m so glad she stopped me from making it.
Did I mention how proud I am of her?
It's September and in the United States many students are filling out applications to the colleges and universities they feel will best prepare them for their future.
A dreaded part of this high-pressure, anxiety-inducing process is the application essay. It's the chance for the student to show why, above scholastic achievement and extra-curricular activities, they are a good fit for the school they are applying to. In a highly competitive process, it's the chance to get an edge over other applicants with similar resumes.
Students in high schools across the country are worrying, "What will get the attention and win the hearts of the admission application screeners?" "What have I done that is noteworthy?" What can I write that will make me stand out from everybody else?"
That's what Hugh Gallagher was facing when he applied to New York University (NYU) in 1989.
The essay he submitted (below) not only helped him get accepted, but it was named the winner of a 1990 Scholastic writing contest.
Many college admission professionals consider it to be the best college application essay of all time.
3A. ESSAY: IN ORDER FOR THE ADMISSIONS STAFF OF OUR COLLEGE
TO GET TO KNOW YOU, THE APPLICANT, BETTER, WE ASK THAT YOU ANSWER THE FOLLOWING
QUESTION:
ARE THERE ANY SIGNIFICANT EXPERIENCES YOU HAVE HAD, OR ACCOMPLISHMENTS YOU HAVE REALIZED, THAT HAVE HELPED TO DEFINE YOU AS A PERSON?
I am a dynamic figure, often seen scaling walls and crushing ice. I have been known to remodel train stations on my lunch breaks, making them more efficient in the area of heat retention. I translate ethnic slurs for Cuban refugees, I write award-winning operas, I manage time efficiently. Occasionally, I tread water for three days in a row.
I woo women with my sensuous and godlike trombone playing, I can pilot bicycles up severe inclines with unflagging speed, and I cook Thirty-Minute Brownies in twenty minutes. I am an expert in stucco, a veteran in love, and an outlaw in Peru.
Using only a hoe and a large glass of water, I once single-handedly defended a small village in the Amazon Basin from a horde of ferocious army ants. I play bluegrass cello, I was scouted by the Mets, I am the subject of numerous documentaries. When I'm bored, I build large suspension bridges in my yard. I enjoy urban hang gliding. On Wednesdays, after school, I repair electrical appliances free of charge.
I am an abstract artist, a concrete analyst, and a ruthless bookie. Critics worldwide swoon over my original line of corduroy evening wear. I don't perspire. I am a private citizen, yet I receive fan mail. I have been caller number nine and have won the weekend passes. Last summer I toured New Jersey with a traveling centrifugal-force demonstration. I bat 400. My deft floral arrangements have earned me fame in international botany circles. Children trust me.
I can hurl tennis rackets at small moving objects with deadly accuracy. I once read Paradise Lost, Moby Dick, and David Copperfield in one day and still had time to refurbish an entire dining room that evening. I know the exact location of every food item in the supermarket. I have performed several covert operations for the CIA. I sleep once a week; when I do sleep, I sleep in a chair. While on vacation in Canada, I successfully negotiated with a group of terrorists who had seized a small bakery. The laws of physics do not apply to me.
I balance, I weave, I dodge, I frolic, and my bills are all paid. On weekends, to let off steam, I participate in full-contact origami. Years ago I discovered the meaning of life but forgot to write it down. I have made extraordinary four course meals using only a mouli and a toaster oven. I breed prizewinning clams. I have won bullfights in San Juan, cliff-diving competitions in Sri Lanka, and spelling bees at the Kremlin. I have played Hamlet, I have performed open-heart surgery, and I have spoken with Elvis.
But I have not yet gone to college.
_________________________
And then there's the story of a college essay from one of my kids:
But I'm a professional writer.
Orders called out as staff preps the restaurant. Surfaces wiped, menus stocked, napkins stacked, a rainbow of umbrellas unfurled.
After 15 minutes he has given up trying to dissuade his granddaughter from pursuing an unreciprocated friendship with a pigeon.
An overweight Jack Russell terrier strains at its leash
until both front feet are lifted from the sidewalk. Ready to protect his
Chianti sipping owner from a lazily approaching pug in a ruffled pink harness.
Priority One: Selfies. She's stopped at a dozen or so spots on the tiny plaza. All the exact same well-practiced pose and facial expression.
A seagull swoops in and scoops up the pizza crust over which
2 pigeons were arguing rightful ownership. There's a lesson here that I doubt
the pigeons learned.
Taking full advantage of four pockets even though the chinos are boa constrictor tight. Front right: cell phone. Front left: vape pen. Back right: wallet. Back left: keys. I can clearly make out 6 keys on a leaning tower of Pisa key ring.
How do you say, "Your shoe's untied" in Italian.
She's striding with such energy that a shoelace instigated stumble seems inevitable.
Six men in black peaked hats adorned with ornate silver insignia, black uniforms heavy with ribbons, sidearms in black leather holsters. Walking abreast followed closely by two black police Alfa Romeo Giuliettas.
Round turquoise rimmed sunglasses and a straw hat worn
backwards. One hand holding mommy's; one hand holding daddy's She might only be
three but she owns the plaza. And she knows it.
Their investment in their photographs includes the amount of their equipment and the effort to lug it around. Is my satisfaction with photos taken with my iPhone based on laziness or low standards?
He wanted the blue brimmed straw hat. She nicely told him it
was not flattering. He stepped inside to see if there was a mirror. She
followed. He left wearing the hat. She left wearing a look of exasperation.
When I was a kid, I was told you could tell a man's status in life by looking at his shoes and his watch. If that's true, today I have been in the company of kings. One of them in shorts and a 7-Up t-shirt.
"Desposito" played on a solo clarinet is popular
based on the number of coins being tossed into the old man's case. He seems to
enjoy playing, coins or not. Is his virtuosity from years in an orchestra or
from years busking.
His neon orange Chicago Bulls uniform still has the fold marks from packaging. It's 2 sizes too big for his scrawny 11-year-old body ... but he doesn't care ... he's Michael Jordan.
