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    CoraOrmseth

    Posts : 39
    Join date : 2009-09-01

    For Copy Editing - College by Nuria

    Post  CoraOrmseth on Thu Nov 05, 2009 12:18 pm

    Dear College X,


    I think I've spent my entire life trying to impress you. I wanted you to see that I'm genuinely special, that I'm a real, flesh and blood person with dreams and ambitions of my own. I have substance and character; I'm no cardboard AP zombie with an impressive array of awards and leadership positions. Then again, when it comes to the admissions process, zombies do have killer weapons—maybe I’d be better off undead.

    I always knew that winning your approval wouldn't be easy. Every year, the numbers in the latest version of the Princeton Review spelled out my chances very clearly: next to nil. But I refused to be deterred; I was determined to prove myself to you. I sacrificed my time, my sleep, and my sanity because I thought that maybe, just maybe, it might make a difference. I stayed up late perfecting projects for classes I never wanted to take and completed countless hours of community service for programs I never wanted to join. To date, I've done everything short of parading across your campus with a giant “Look at Me!” sign, and I only drew the line there because that just reeks of desperation. The other stuff is slightly more subtle. Just slightly.

    I used to have a plan for these past four years, a plan that I figured would put me on the right track if I stuck to it meticulously. Things didn't work out quite that way, though. I'd like to explain the subpar grades that one semester, but I don't think “I was falling apart” is the answer you're looking for. And despite my many hours with the big blue book, my test scores were far from spectacular. I never thought I'd be embarrassed to send in a college application, but today, as I scan the lackluster stack of papers before me, I can't help but feel horribly deficient.

    But that’s only the vulnerable part of me speaking. From a rational perspective, I couldn’t give a dang. I realize that you know nothing about me—absolutely nothing. The only fragments of information you possess are stupid, trivial data like my lowest SAT subscore and the amount of money my folks make, empty stickers you can peel off without changing who I am underneath. They are no more a part of me than a hollow, meaningless shell. They do not define me.

    Here's what you don't know: that I would die for my friends, that my favorite food is sushi, that I taught myself to play the electric guitar. That I always eat the red Skittles first. That I have always valued loyalty and honesty above all else, that I still write letters out by hand, no matter how long they are. That my greatest strength and my greatest weakness is caring too much. That at first glance I may seem shy and aloof, but I’m really quite passionate once you get to know me.

    And yet you expect me to transcribe myself into a few fill-in-the-blank pages. There's so much more to me than that. I'm worth a novel, at least. Maybe even a series.

    In the spring, I’ll sit outside by the mailbox after school, waiting impatiently for the truck to pull up to the curb. I'll be on a first name basis with the mailman by that point, and he'll give me that knowing look as he hands me an envelope with your name on the return address. And if it's a thin envelope, I might get choked up a little, maybe even cry—I admit that. Rejection hurts more than a slap to the face. No matter how impersonal its form, it's like having the wind knocked out of you emotionally, like being told that you’ve been judged and, for whatever reason, deemed inadequate. Deep down though, I know that's not true. It's not that I don't deserve you. You don't deserve me.

    So bring it on, College X. Whether I get my diploma from you or University ABC, I'm going to make something out of my life. Just you wait.


    Sincerely,

    Nuria

    oisheeshemontee

    Posts : 145
    Join date : 2009-09-01
    Age : 22

    Re: For Copy Editing - College by Nuria

    Post  oisheeshemontee on Tue Nov 10, 2009 12:30 pm

    Dear College X,

    I think I've spent my entire life trying to impress you. I wanted you to see that I'm genuinely special, that I'm a real, [delete the comma] flesh[-]and[-]blood person with dreams and ambitions of my own. I have substance and character; I'm no ['not a' or 'not some' sounds better here than 'no'] cardboard AP zombie with an impressive array of awards and leadership positions. Then again, when it comes to the admissions process, zombies do have killer weapons—maybe I’d be better off undead.

    I always knew that winning your approval wouldn't be easy. Every year, the numbers in the latest version of the Princeton Review spelled out my chances very clearly: next to nil. But I refused to be deterred; I was determined to prove myself to you. I sacrificed my time, my sleep, and my sanity because I thought that maybe, just maybe, it might make a difference. I stayed up late perfecting projects for classes I never wanted to take and completed countless hours of community service for programs I never wanted to join. To date, I've done everything short of parading across your campus with a giant “Look at Me!” sign, and I only drew the line there because that just reeks of desperation. The other stuff [stuff I've done] is slightly more subtle. Just slightly.

    I used to have a plan for these past four years, a plan that I figured would put me on the right track if I stuck to it meticulously. Things didn't work out quite that way, though. I'd like to explain the subpar grades that one semester, but I don't think “I was falling apart” is the answer you're looking for. And despite my many hours with the big blue book, my test scores were far from spectacular. I never thought I'd be embarrassed to send in a college application, but today, as I scan the lackluster stack of papers before me, I can't help but feel horribly deficient.

    But that’s only the vulnerable part of me speaking. From a rational perspective, I couldn’t give a dang. I realize that you know nothing about me—absolutely nothing. The only fragments of information you possess are stupid, trivial data like my lowest SAT subscore and the amount of money my folks make, empty stickers you can peel off without changing who I am underneath. They are no more a part of me than a hollow, meaningless shell. They do not define me.

    Here's what you don't know: that I would die for my friends, that my favorite food is sushi, that I taught myself [how] to play the electric guitar. That I always eat the red Skittles first. That I have always valued loyalty and honesty above all else, that I still write letters out by hand, no matter how long they are. That my greatest strength and my greatest weakness is caring too much. That at first glance I may seem shy and aloof, but I’m really quite passionate once you get to know me.

    And yet you expect me to transcribe myself into a few fill-in-the-blank pages. There's so much more to me than that. I'm worth a novel, at least. Maybe even a series.

    In the spring, I’ll sit outside by the mailbox after school, waiting impatiently for the truck to pull up to the curb. I'll be on a first name basis with the mailman by that point, and he'll give me that knowing look as he hands me an envelope with your name on the return address. And if it's a thin envelope, I might get choked up a little, maybe even cry—I admit that. Rejection hurts more than a slap to the face. No matter how impersonal its form, it's like having the wind knocked out of you emotionally, like being told that you’ve been judged and, for whatever reason, deemed inadequate. Deep down though, I know that's not true. It's not that I don't deserve you. You don't deserve me.

    So bring it on, College X. Whether I get my diploma from you or University ABC, I'm going to make something out of my life. Just you wait.

    Sincerely,
    Nuria

    eleanachiang

    Posts : 7
    Join date : 2009-08-31

    Re: For Copy Editing - College by Nuria

    Post  eleanachiang on Wed Nov 11, 2009 10:17 am

    Nuria-
    When Cora and I went for the Q&A session with Contemporary Journalism, we talked about this article. Ms. Cordero said that the essays are supposed to be the "real you" and that our point is invalid. So let's try to counter that with something like "you ask me to write an essay, 500 words about my life, and I 1) need 10,000 words, 2) wonder how honest I'm supposed to be." Because I think a lot of us are at the point where we're not sure if our lives would interest admissions officers without the occasional exaggeration, etc. So yeah, just add that so people know WHY you think the essays are insufficient.
    Thanks (:

    NuriaMathog

    Posts : 6
    Join date : 2009-09-02

    Re: For Copy Editing - College by Nuria

    Post  NuriaMathog on Thu Nov 12, 2009 11:56 am

    Dear College X,

    I think I've spent my entire life trying to impress you. I wanted you to see that I'm genuinely special, that I'm a real, flesh and blood person with dreams and ambitions of my own. I have substance and character; I'm no cardboard AP zombie with an impressive array of awards and leadership positions. Then again, when it comes to the admissions process, zombies do have killer weapons—maybe I’d be better off undead.
    I always knew that winning your approval wouldn't be easy. Every year, the numbers in the latest version of the Princeton Review spelled out my chances very clearly: next to nil. But I refused to be deterred; I was determined to prove myself to you. I sacrificed my time, my sleep, and my sanity because I thought that maybe, just maybe, it might make a difference. I stayed up late perfecting projects for classes I never wanted to take and completed countless hours of community service for programs I never wanted to join. To date, I've done everything short of parading across your campus with a giant “Look at Me!” sign, and I only drew the line there because that just reeks of desperation. The other stuff is slightly more subtle. Just slightly.
    You claim that your personal statement is the ideal opportunity for me to “express myself,” as though I could somehow streamline my personality into five hundred words (six hundred maximum). I must have revised my essay at least a hundred thousand times, struggling to find the perfect combination of wit, idiosyncrasy, and profound insight that would make your admissions officers laugh, or smile, or feel generally inclined to admit me. But for all I know, my reader will be the one person on the planet who finds my writing deeply offensive. What am I— unique or a total weirdo? Brilliant or just mentally disturbed? My identity is entirely up to your interpretation, and that frightens me more than I care to admit.
    I used to have a plan for these past four years, a plan that I figured would put me on the right track if I stuck to it meticulously. Things didn't work out quite that way, though. I'd like to explain the subpar grades that one semester, but I don't think “I was falling apart” is the answer you're looking for. And despite my many hours with the big blue book, my test scores were far from spectacular. I never thought I'd be embarrassed to send in a college application, but today, as I scan the lackluster stack of papers before me, I can't help but feel horribly deficient.
    But that’s only the vulnerable part of me speaking. From a rational perspective, I couldn’t give a dang. I realize that you know nothing about me—absolutely nothing. The only fragments of information you possess are stupid, trivial data like my lowest SAT subscore and the amount of money my folks make, empty stickers you can peel off without changing who I am underneath. They are no more a part of me than a hollow, meaningless shell. They do not define me.
    Here's what you don't know: that I would die for my friends, that my favorite food is sushi, that I taught myself to play the electric guitar. That I always eat the red Skittles first. That I have always valued loyalty and honesty above all else, that I still write letters out by hand, no matter how long they are. That my greatest strength and my greatest weakness is caring too much. That at first glance I may seem shy and aloof, but I’m really quite passionate once you get to know me.
    And yet you expect me to transcribe myself into a few fill-in-the-blank pages. There's so much more to me than that. I'm worth a novel, at least. Maybe even a series.
    In the spring, I’ll camp out by my computer, compulsively refreshing my admissions status page every few minutes. I’ll wait for your notification with bated breath, both desperate and afraid to know the answer. And if it begins with “We regret to inform you…,” I might get choked up a little, maybe even cry—I admit that. Rejection hurts more than a slap to the face. No matter how impersonal its form, it's like having the wind knocked out of you emotionally, like being told that you’ve been judged and, for whatever reason, deemed inadequate. Deep down though, I know that's not true. It's not that I don't deserve you. You don't deserve me.
    So bring it on, College X. Whether I get my diploma from you or University ABC, I'm going to make something out of my life. Just you wait.


    Sincerely,
    Nuria

    oisheeshemontee

    Posts : 145
    Join date : 2009-09-01
    Age : 22

    Edit #2

    Post  oisheeshemontee on Thu Nov 12, 2009 12:30 pm

    Dear College X,

    I think I've spent my entire life trying to impress you. I wanted you to see that I'm genuinely special, that I'm a real, [delete comma] flesh[-]and[-]blood person with dreams and ambitions of my own. I have substance and character; I'm no ['not a' or 'not some' might sound better here] cardboard AP zombie with an impressive array of awards and leadership positions. Then again, when it comes to the admissions process, zombies do have killer weapons—maybe I’d be better off undead.
    I always knew that winning your approval wouldn't be easy. Every year, the numbers in the latest version of the Princeton Review spelled out my chances very clearly: next to nil. But I refused to be deterred; I was determined to prove myself to you. I sacrificed my time, my sleep, and my sanity because I thought that maybe, just maybe, it might make a difference. I stayed up late perfecting projects for classes I never wanted to take and completed countless hours of community service for programs I never wanted to join. To date, I've done everything short of parading across your campus with a giant “Look at Me!” sign, and I only drew the line there because that just reeks of desperation. The other stuff [stuff I've done] is slightly more subtle. Just slightly.
    You claim that your personal statement is the ideal opportunity for me to “express myself,” as though I could somehow streamline my [entire] personality into five hundred words (six hundred maximum). I must have revised my essay at least a hundred thousand times, struggling to find the perfect combination of wit, idiosyncrasy, and profound insight that would make your admissions officers laugh, or smile, or feel generally inclined to admit me. But for all I know, my reader will be the one person on the planet who finds my writing deeply offensive. What am I— unique or a total weirdo? Brilliant or just mentally disturbed? My identity is entirely up to your interpretation, and that frightens me more than I care to admit.
    I used to have a plan for these past four years, a plan that I figured would put me on the right track if I stuck to it meticulously. Things didn't work out quite that way, though. I'd like to explain the subpar grades that one semester, but I don't think “I was falling apart” is the answer you're looking for. And despite my many hours with the big blue book, my test scores were far from spectacular. I never thought I'd be embarrassed to send in a college application, but today, as I scan the lackluster stack of papers before me, I can't help but feel horribly deficient.
    But that’s only the vulnerable part of me speaking. From a rational perspective, I couldn’t give a dang. I realize that you know nothing about me—absolutely nothing. The only fragments of information you possess are stupid, trivial data like my lowest SAT subscore and the amount of money my folks make, empty stickers you can peel off without changing who I am underneath. They are no more a part of me than a hollow, meaningless shell. They do not define me.
    Here's what you don't know: that I would die for my friends, that my favorite food is sushi, that I taught myself [how] to play the electric guitar. That I always eat the red Skittles first. That I have always valued loyalty and honesty above all else, that I still write letters out by hand, no matter how long they are. That my greatest strength and my greatest weakness is caring too much. That at first glance I may seem shy and aloof, but I’m really quite passionate once you get to know me.
    And yet you expect me to transcribe myself into a few fill-in-the-blank pages. There's so much more to me than that. I'm worth a novel, at least. Maybe even a series.
    In the spring, I’ll camp out by my computer, compulsively refreshing my admissions status page every few minutes. I’ll wait for your notification with bated breath, both desperate and afraid to know the answer. And if it begins with “We regret to inform you…,” I might get choked up a little, maybe even cry—I admit that. Rejection hurts more than a slap to the face. No matter how impersonal its form, it's like having the wind knocked out of you emotionally, like being told that you’ve been judged and, for whatever reason, deemed inadequate. Deep down though, I know that's not true. It's not that I don't deserve you. You don't deserve me.
    So bring it on, College X. Whether I get my diploma from you or University ABC, I'm going to make something out of my life. Just you wait.

    Sincerely,
    Nuria

    CoraOrmseth

    Posts : 39
    Join date : 2009-09-01

    Re: For Copy Editing - College by Nuria

    Post  CoraOrmseth on Fri Nov 13, 2009 5:10 pm

    Revised.

    *************

    Dear College X,

    I think I've spent my entire life trying to impress you. I wanted you to see that I'm genuinely special, that I'm a real flesh and blood person with dreams and ambitions of my own. I have substance and character; I'm not some cardboard AP zombie with an impressive array of awards and leadership positions. Then again, when it comes to the admissions process, zombies do have killer weapons—maybe I’d be better off undead.
    I always knew that winning your approval wouldn't be easy. Every year, the numbers in the latest version of the Princeton Review spelled out my chances very clearly: next to nil. But I refused to be deterred; I was determined to prove myself to you. I sacrificed my time, my sleep, and my sanity because I thought that maybe, just maybe, it might make a difference. I stayed up late perfecting projects for classes I never wanted to take and completed countless hours of community service for programs I never wanted to join. To date, I've done everything short of parading across your campus with a giant “Look at Me!” sign, and I only drew the line there because that just reeks of desperation. The other stuff I've done is slightly more subtle. Just slightly.
    You claim that your personal statement is the ideal opportunity for me to “express myself,” as though I could somehow streamline my entire personality into five hundred words (six hundred maximum). I must have revised my essay at least a hundred thousand times, struggling to find the perfect combination of wit, idiosyncrasy, and profound insight that would make your admissions officers laugh, or smile, or feel generally inclined to admit me. But for all I know, my reader will be the one person on the planet who finds my writing deeply offensive. What am I— unique or a total weirdo? Brilliant or just mentally disturbed? My identity is entirely up to your interpretation, and that frightens me more than I care to admit.
    I used to have a plan for these past four years, a plan that I figured would put me on the right track if I stuck to it meticulously. Things didn't work out quite that way, though. I'd like to explain the subpar grades that one semester, but I don't think “I was falling apart” is the answer you're looking for. And despite my many hours with the big blue book, my test scores were far from spectacular. I never thought I'd be embarrassed to send in a college application, but today, as I scan the lackluster stack of papers before me, I can't help but feel horribly deficient.
    But that’s only the vulnerable part of me speaking. From a rational perspective, I couldn’t give a dang. I realize that you know nothing about me—absolutely nothing. The only fragments of information you possess are stupid, trivial data like my lowest SAT subscore and the amount of money my folks make, empty stickers you can peel off without changing who I am underneath. They are no more a part of me than a hollow, meaningless shell. They do not define me.
    Here's what you don't know: that I would die for my friends, that my favorite food is sushi, that I taught myself how to play the electric guitar. That I always eat the red Skittles first. That I have always valued loyalty and honesty above all else, that I still write letters out by hand, no matter how long they are. That my greatest strength and my greatest weakness is caring too much. That at first glance I may seem shy and aloof, but I’m really quite passionate once you get to know me.
    And yet you expect me to transcribe myself into a few fill-in-the-blank pages. There's so much more to me than that. I'm worth a novel, at least. Maybe even a series.
    In the spring, I’ll camp out by my computer, compulsively refreshing my admissions status page every few minutes. I’ll wait for your notification with bated breath, both desperate and afraid to know the answer. And if it begins with “We regret to inform you…,” I might get choked up a little, maybe even cry—I admit that. Rejection hurts more than a slap to the face. No matter how impersonal its form, it's like having the wind knocked out of you emotionally, like being told that you’ve been judged and, for whatever reason, deemed inadequate. Deep down though, I know that's not true. It's not that I don't deserve you. You don't deserve me.
    So bring it on, College X. Whether I get my diploma from you or University ABC, I'm going to make something out of my life. Just you wait.

    Sincerely,
    Nuria

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    Re: For Copy Editing - College by Nuria

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