Essays in Hell
Why do my students suffer so robustly with their application essays?
These kids are anything but inept, have mad writing skills, can address any other topic. They write everything else. They “respond to [a] prompt with a thesis that presents a defensible position” no problem. They “compare and contrast Nathaniel Hawthorne’s and Herman Melville’s ‘dark vision of human nature’ emphasizing their different ‘artistic methods, temperaments, and philosophical approaches to evil’” no sweat. The expound on “[the] extent [to which] the American Civil War an inevitable result of the economic, social, and political differences between the North and South?” with one hand tied behind their laptop.
But “discuss an accomplishment, event, or realization that sparked a period of personal growth and a new understanding of yourself of others.” KMN. My students writhe rather than write, decompensate rather than compose.
It not just “manana syndrome.” The impending deadline looms, but the kids put off starting application essays in a way that is quantitatively different from how they avoid putting fingers to keyboards on English or history assignments.
I think much of the anxiety results from the perception of being judged. I ask my students who they think will read their essays. What kind of employee will be responsible for saying yea or nay? “Someone your age” is a typical reply. (I will turn 70 this year.) “Someone on the linguistics faculty, someone with a PhD in English.” The kids envision wizened toga-wearing essay readers, long beards flowing, bushes burning on a nearby mountain top. Or the “summa rudis” (head referee of gladiatorial combat.)
“What do you think essay readers earn?” I ask. One of my students suggested “about $400,000 a year?”
None of these perceptions is remotely accurate.
Admissions folks are habitually recent college grads, early 20s. They are working for a few years in admissions at their alma mater before going to grad school or joining the Peace Corps or getting “real jobs”—that is to say employments that would allow them to buy a home or have a child. They make “teacher money,” forty-something thousand dollars a year, more in urban centers, less at rural colleges. The head of admissions earns over a hundred K. But she is not reading 800 application essays each cycle any more than she herself is doing presentations at high schools throughout her territory or repeatedly giving tours of the campus.
And none of these folks is judging applicants—although they are making decisions. Which in the minds of applicants amounts to the same thing. Essay readers aren’t’ playing “gotcha”. “Hah! Parallel structure error! Put this semi-literate cretin in the reject pile!” They are making decisions holistically. They are looking for students to find their voice, speak their truth, communicate that which is not found in course selection, test scores, grade point average, and rank in class.
So students feel like they are being judged. Indeed, isn’t the view of some religions that admission to heaven—never mind matriculating to college—is based on belief, on being found worthy? And while I might point out that attending Colby rather than enrolling at Bowdoin in hardly comparable to eternal flammability, young people feel they are being judged and sorted. It’s not Gryffindor rather than Hufflepuff, but harps and wings versus pitchforks and flames. For students who have been trained for 12 years to sit, stay, heel, beg, and write, the admissions process may feel overwhelming.
My students therefore might not believe that they are indeed something more than the sum of their accomplishments. Everyone has a story to tell, but surely my story is uninteresting and unworthy. Hence crushing procrastination.
What are loving parents and supportive counselors to do? Start by being nice, acknowledging that writing application essays is stressful. Reinforce that admission in not contingent upon obviating nominative objective case—who/whom—errors. Help the people entrusted to your care to make a schedule. Applying to ten highly rejective colleges might require composing ten supplemental essays in addition to the one essay that will be submitted to all the colleges. Ten essays? Ten weeks of summer vacation? Do the math. One essay per week is reasonable. Having everything done before the vagaries of senior year would be awesome. (And don’t tell me that the supplemental essays might change when the common application goes live on August 1, 2026. Sure, some essays might be new, but most won’t. Needing to rewrite a few drafts is a small price to pay to avoid trying to come up with ten ideas hours before the fall admissions deadline.)
Because writing ten essays in a hurry would truly be hell.