By Phillip Mink
Director of the Patriot Prelaw Program (P3)
Schar School of Policy and Government
This essay will demonstrate how a student crafted a compelling personal statement through multiple revisions. The process was labor-intensive, detail oriented, and so thorough that only 70 words of the original 656 remained. But the student – we’ll call her Jane – wanted to attend a highly competitive school, so her statement had to be excellent. Eventually she was accepted to almost every top school, with several offering scholarships. She decided to enroll at Harvard.
The statement concerns the author’s transformation from a novelist in middle school to a hopeful lawyer in college. The challenge she faced was how to synthesize the different parts of her life into a coherent narrative. To explain how she did that, I will begin by presenting the entire first draft. After that I will break it down paragraph by paragraph, showing my comments and Jane’s revisions. At the end is the final statement as submitted with her applications.
The First Draft
In this draft Jane tells a story about one of the most important parts of her life, and it does reveal who she is. It wasn’t good enough for the top schools, however, and she knew it.
Here is the complete statement:
I first discovered passion in the sixth grade. My world history teacher Ms. Quinn read human rights violations of the 1970s Argentinian Dictatorship off of flash cards: Mass unmarked graves filled with political opponents, pregnant women pushed off of planes into the ocean, and hundreds of infants born in prisons given to military families to raise. Facts from class morphed into scenes and characters. That evening, I began drafting my first novel.
Overnight, I had become “a writer.” The once pristine margins of my class notes became filled with phrases. I took a notebook with me during lunch breaks in case a plot point sprung into my mind. Every night, I fell asleep to character dialogues and action sequences. November – once mainly marked by Thanksgiving – became National Novel Writing Month, in which thousands of writers worldwide attempted to write 50,000 words in thirty days. I scoured writing blogs for advice on foreshadowing, character development, and the painstaking process of revision. As others read my work, I began to realize that words have power. With my writing, I could make a reader fall in love or hate a person that did not truly exist. I could put them in a state of stress, anxiously waiting for the next chapter, or I could provide resolution. Two rewrites and 168,865 words later, I had come to a conclusion: I wanted to be an author.
By high school, I decided that I did not like the technological limitations in historical fiction. I delved into the magical realism genre, a modern world with key fantastic elements. In my classes, I learned how concision and precision in writing gives words more meaning. As I continued to refine my writing style, I experienced a series of first [sic] that showed me a darker dimension of words’ power: The first time I was catcalled; the first time a man called me “exotic” because of my Indian heritage; the first time my Spanish fluency combined with my dark skin tone prompted a stranger to shout, “Mexicans do not belong in this country.” As nauseated as these experiences made me feel, I realized that so many people have much worse “first times” and “second times” and “hundredth times.” My stories changed with my perspective. I purposefully started making my main characters people of color. I researched societal, gender, racial, and class structures, and I tried to accurately portray these ideas within my stories. Still, I felt something was missing.
I switched genres again. I wrote fantasy, experimented with mythology, and dabbled in dystopia. Although this journey made me enjoy fiction writing even more than the day I had started, I realized it was no longer what I wanted to dedicate my life to. By high school graduation, I concluded that I wanted to do more than write stories; I wanted to change them.
I soon embraced political science as my undergraduate major. “If I can understand how political structures function,” I thought, “then I can determine where and how to address the failures.” For three years, I learned about political theories. I read about a global system unequipped to prevent human rights violations in the least privileged communities. Non-governmental organizations, the Foreign Service, and the United Nations emerged as agents of change. I decided to work with these organizations post-graduation, but just like with my writing, something felt missing.
Upon recommendation of my advisor, I took a law class. Here, I discovered an entire set of local, national, and international statutes that affect over 7 billion people, often without their knowledge. In the law I saw a unique language that holds the power to enable innovation and quell discrimination. I finally found what I had been looking for: a way to combine my passion for language and my desire to promote human rights domestically and internationally. I want to utilize the potency of the written and spoken word, and I want to do it with the law.
The Specificity Problem
While parts of this narrative are reasonably effective, the entire statement suffered from a lack of detail. This begins in the first line with the author discovering “passion,” which is an abstraction. It continues with the sentence, “Facts from class morphed into scenes and characters.” Instead of talking about passion and scenes and characters, the better course is to show the reader what these are.
Since the absence of detail was the statement’s main problem, I wrote an end note to Jane suggesting that her GPA and LSAT might be enough for most schools, but “it would help to have a great statement.” I then explained how she might do that, with help from an excellent collection of essays. I continued:
I’m not necessarily suggesting that you start from scratch, but it might be a good idea [to analyze great statements to see how they do it.] Take the opening paragraph of the Harvard statement [from the book 55 Successful Harvard Law School Application Essays]:
The sky was still dark – but it was almost dawn. I tightened my sweat-sticky headscarf. Watching the men circumambulating the sacred black stone of the Kaaba in Mecca, Saudi Arabia, I could not help but envy their ehrams, white towels that draped around their waists like airy togas.
This is setting a scene as any fiction writer would, with a dark sky and a “sweat-sticky headscarf.” Then the specific reference to a sacred black stone. Next is the ehrams, an unusual word with a specific description, and a touch of elegance with the “airy togas” phrase.
The author begins the third paragraph with this:
Men and women sat in patches, hugging the black and gilded Kaaba, waiting for the call to the Fajr prayer on my final day in Mecca. Legs folded beneath me, I watched the Saudi shurta – civil police officers – divide the women and the men. “Very well then,” I thought equably. “Separate but equal.”
Again, the author is setting a scene with specific details. Contrast that with your opening line: “I first discovered passion….” This is immediately abstract. The second sentence is problematic because you’re recounting political matters that anyone could recount – they are not specific to you, in other words.
So [I would] say this: Everything in this statement needs to be more specific.
Draft 1, Paragraph
With these ideas in mind, I commented on each of Jane’s paragraphs. Here is her original first paragraph again:
I first discovered passion in the sixth grade. My world history teacher Ms. Quinn read human rights violations of the 1970s Argentinian Dictatorship off of flash cards: Mass unmarked graves filled with political opponents, pregnant women pushed off of planes into the ocean, and hundreds of infants born in prisons given to military families to raise. Facts from class morphed into scenes and characters. That evening, I began drafting my first novel.
Aside from the comments noted above, at the first sentence I asked Jane if she could “begin with a more specific opening? Perhaps even set a scene?”
Paragraph 1, Draft 3
On two subsequent drafts, Jane created more detail. Eventually she settled on this rewritten first paragraph:
“During the Argentinian Military Dictatorship,” Ms. Quinn began, “soldiers herded pregnant dissidents onto planes. If a mother were ugly, they decided her child would be as well, and they pushed the woman off the plane into the ocean.” Ms. Quinn, my sixth grade world history teacher, meant to teach us the horrors of tyrannical regimes. Instead those words spun in my brain until they produced two characters: an Argentinian mother imprisoned for her progressive beliefs and her daughter, Eva, determined to follow in her parents’ rebellious footsteps. That evening, I began drafting my first novel.
The line about an ugly mother is an unusual detail, and rather than merely saying that her ideas had “morphed into scenes and characters,” she names one character and elaborates on her situation.
Paragraph 3, Draft 1: Changing Directions
Jane’s first draft continued to describe her evolution as a writer, and in the third paragraph she took this turn:
…. As I continued to refine my writing style, I experienced a series of firsts that showed me a darker dimension of words’ power: The first time I was catcalled; the first time a man called me “exotic” because of my Indian heritage; the first time my Spanish fluency combined with my dark skin tone prompted a stranger to shout, “Mexicans do not belong in this country.” … My stories changed with my perspective. I purposefully started making my main characters people of color. I researched societal, gender, racial, and class structures, and I tried to accurately portray these ideas within my stories. …
In the first part of the paragraph, I commented: “This section is what made this statement come alive…. The specificity is compelling.” And when she said “people of color,” I said, “You could really develop this.” Problems emerged with the research sentence, however, and I commented: “Jane, everything in this sentence is an abstraction.”
Jane and I had a productive give and take as she repeatedly revised this section. On her sixth draft, for instance, she wrote that one man told her that “foreign women ‘bring something extra’ to a relationship.” I wasn’t exactly sure what this meant, so Jane explained,
When he said that, I was 99% sure he meant this sexually. I was uncomfortable enough as it was, so I didn’t ask him to clarify. If this part is not effective, I don’t think I have anything to replace it with (after he called me exotic, I focused on getting out of the situation as quickly as possible), so should I just cut this part and leave it at “he called me exotic”?
I suggested she leave it.
I also commented on language issues. When Jane wrote, “As a fiction writer, I aspired to foster respect for minorities so eventually nobody would be persecuted for speaking a different language or being a woman walking alone.” I said, “This passive ‘being’ doesn’t pair well with ‘persecuted.’ ” It lacked parallelism, in other words.
Eventually Jane transformed this paragraph into a more powerful commentary. After the man told her that Mexicans didn’t belong in this country, Jane wrote this new paragraph:
I wanted to confront my harassers, but I did not feel safe doing that in real life. So I did it in my stories. My next character became a bilingual East Asian woman who struggled to fight the “docile Asian woman” stereotype, the idea that East Asian women are submissive partners destined to become housewives. My character’s best friend was an African American man who could not shop at a clothing store without being accused of shoplifting. As a fiction writer, I aspired to foster respect for minorities so eventually no person would be persecuted for speaking a different language and no woman would be propositioned for daring to walk unescorted.
The College Section
In her 1st draft Jane transitioned rather abruptly to her college experience:
I soon embraced political science as my undergraduate major. “If I can understand how political structures function,” I thought, “then I can determine where and how to address the failures.” For three years, I learned about political theories. I read about a global system unequipped to prevent human rights violations in the least privileged communities. Non-governmental organizations, the Foreign Service, and the United Nations emerged as agents of change. I decided to work with these organizations post-graduation, but just like with my writing, something felt missing.
I noted that the statement on “political theories” and other parts are abstract. Her next paragraph about turning to the law was also problematic:
Upon recommendation of my advisor, I took a law class. Here, I discovered an entire set of local, national, and international statutes that affect over 7 billion people, often without their knowledge. In the law I saw a unique language that holds the power to enable innovation and quell discrimination. I finally found what I had been looking for: a way to combine my passion for language and my desire to promote human rights domestically and internationally. I want to utilize the potency of the written and spoken word, and I want to do it with the law.
I noted that “you’ve described your passion in purely theoretical terms, so it’s hard for a reader to feel what you’re feeling.”
The Basmati Example
Her next draft of the college section began laying the groundwork for a new direction:
I entered college determined to learn about the political structures that perpetuated exploitation and the institutions that could help me change these inequalities. One of my political science courses introduced me to biopiracy, the process of patenting biological knowledge or practices without compensating the indigenous people who developed the craft. I learned how the U.S. government allowed a Texas company to patent Basmati Rice, an indigenous Indian staple, to the detriment of thousands of Indians who grew it. Technicalities of law had stolen the livelihoods of the underprivileged. With my outrage came a conviction: The law should be used to empower, and I would become part of this process. I want to utilize the potency of the written and spoken word, and I want to do so with the law.
I asked, “The main issue with this paragraph is how you see the law at work? Did you cover anything in your courses that would demonstrate more concretely how this would happen?”
Her next draft included new material that helped engage a reader:
…. One of my political science courses introduced me to biopiracy…. I studied a case in which the U.S. government allowed a Texas company, Ricetec, to patent Basmati Rice. As an Indian woman who has eaten basmati rice four days a week for the majority of my life, the thought of an American company patenting rice strains that Indian farmers have spent centuries cross-breeding and perfecting appalled me. … Indian lawyers fought for years to restrict the patent. In 2001, they succeeded. … As I reviewed the Basmati Rice case and similar scenarios, a conviction solidified: The law should empower the overlooked, and I wanted become part of that process. I aspired to combine my love of language with the law. I would still be a writer, but instead of writing fiction, I would change lives.
On the last line I commented: “Not sure this sentence is as strong as you want. … Also, I’m not sure you’ve said enough about the intersection of writing and the issues that absorb you. Could you mention briefly how you used the language to address these matters?”
Jane tried a different conclusion in her 5th draft. Instead of the “change lives” sentence, she wrote, “the law uses the power of language as a motor for progress, and I want to help drive the car.” I commented: “A little risky – metaphors always are. But it may be clever enough to work.” But I also offered a more substantive comment:
The bigger issue is that you are leaving the first part of the statement behind. Maybe you could reflect on how language is the connecting fiber between the girl who first heard of dissidents being thrown from a plane and the woman who wanted to stop US companies from patenting Basmati rice. After all, you’re trying to accomplish the same goals, and in that sense the use of language is the same. You’re just writing for different audiences.
Draft 6 offered a more effective concluding line: “My undergraduate education has made me realize that I don’t have to choose between my love for language and my desire to empower vulnerable peoples. I can combine both my passions with the law.”
After a few minor revisions, I had said all I could about the statement, and I told Jane I thought she was done
Draft #8: The Final Statement
Jane’s final draft follows the initial narrative structure, but she added a multitude of details:
“During the Argentinian Military Dictatorship,” Ms. Quinn began, “soldiers herded pregnant dissidents onto planes. If a mother were ugly, they decided her child would be as well, and they pushed the woman off the plane into the ocean.” Ms. Quinn, my sixth grade world history teacher, meant to teach us the horrors of tyrannical regimes. Instead those words spun in my brain until they produced two characters: an Argentinian mother imprisoned for her progressive beliefs and her daughter, Eva, determined to follow in her parents’ rebellious footsteps. That evening, I began drafting my first novel.
Overnight I had become “a writer.” Novel-crafting transformed from a hobby to my new passion. November – once marked by Thanksgiving – became National Novel Writing Month: Thousands of writers worldwide attempted to write 50,000 words in thirty days. When I was not crafting Eva’s story, I was scouring writing blogs for advice on foreshadowing, character development, and revision. As others read my draft, I discovered that words have power. My best friend Amanda, for instance, fell in love with Eva’s older brother Simon. When he died, she implored me in vain to change his fate. Friends stopped me in the hallway between classes, pleading for the next installment. Completing Eva’s story took me three years, two rewrites, and 168,865 words. In the summer before I started high school, I added Eva’s story to the “final drafts” folder on my computer. In that moment I committed myself to a fiction-writing career.
Two years later, when I was sixteen, I discovered a darker dimension of words’ power. Men twice my age started catcalling me from across the street with “Hey baby,” or a “How about you come home with me tonight?” A man called me “exotic” because of my Indian heritage, insisting that foreign women “bring something extra” to a relationship. My Spanish fluency combined with my dark skin tone prompted a stranger to shout, “Mexicans do not belong in this country.”
I wanted to confront my harassers, but I did not feel safe doing that in real life. So I did it in my stories. My next character became a bilingual East Asian woman who struggled to fight the “docile Asian woman” stereotype, the idea that East Asian women are submissive partners destined to become housewives. My character’s best friend was an African American man who could not shop at a clothing store without being accused of shoplifting. As a fiction writer, I aspired to foster respect for minorities so eventually no person would be persecuted for speaking a different language and no woman would be propositioned for daring to walk unescorted. While these portrayals empowered me, I felt a nagging suspicion that representation alone would not create equality for minorities. By high school graduation, I decided to give up fiction writing to find a career that promoted systemic change.
I entered college determined to learn about the political structures that perpetuated exploitation and the institutions that could help me change these inequalities. One of my political science courses introduced me to biopiracy, the process of patenting biological knowledge or practices without compensating the indigenous people who developed the craft. I studied a case in which the U.S. government allowed a Texas company, Ricetec, to patent basmati rice. The patent restricted Indian basmati rice exports to the United States and lowered basmati rice’s price in European markets, threatening the livelihoods of thousands of Indian farmers, grain refiners, and traders. As an Indian woman who had eaten basmati rice four days a week for most of my life, I was appalled at the thought of an American company gaining exclusive rights to rice strains that Indian farmers have spent centuries cross-breeding and perfecting. The Indian government shared this sentiment. By parsing international agreements and arguing for a geographical interpretation of the word “basmati,” the nation’s lawyers prevented the exploitation of indigenous Indian people and ensured that Indian families in the United States would not have to pay a premium to maintain a traditional diet.
My political science classes acquainted me with many such cases in which trade agreements, international conventions, and national legislation could either oppress people or empower them. Behind every scenario were dozens of lawyers whose words changed the lives of thousands. As I considered these cases, I recalled my first novel. A decade before, inequality and human rights violations had inspired me to write fiction. My love for writing compelled me to continue this pursuit for seven years, and at eighteen, my drive to end systemic discrimination compelled me to give it up. My undergraduate education has made me realize that I do not have to choose between my love for language and my desire to empower vulnerable peoples. I can combine both of my passions with the law.
Concluding Thoughts
Jane emerged from this process with a substantially better statement, but to do that she had to spend countless hours revising the document until she could find nothing to improve. Not every student has to devote this much time to a statement, but if you are on the borderline at a given school, a superior statement may help you. And if your grades and LSAT make you competitive for merit scholarships, a great statement may well make the difference.