<p>@karatekid66 UC won’t need to overlook any “flaws.” The only thing is that you won’t have helped yourself much, but those “flaws” aren’t going to bring down your application. They’re not looking for the perfect essay, they just want to get to know you and learn more about how you think. Your essay shows that you can think creatively (apart from the last line :/) and that you can write well so you don’t need to worry about it too much.</p>
<p>Essay Option 6: So where is Waldo, really?</p>
<p>What All Lives Deserve Once</p>
<pre><code>Companionship is an invaluable treasure. Pythias had Damon. David had Jonathan. Winnie the Pooh had Piglet. True friends make perseverance possible; like those in the famous duos, theyre those who share their essence with you no matter what surrogate executions, paranoid fathers, or honey shortages arise. They are WALDO- What All Lives Deserve Once.
Life is lonely without an ally. From the empty elementary school lunch table to the senior home, those who lack a confidante become vulnerable and dejected. But loneliness isnt reserved for the social outcasts or elderly. Often, those surrounded by people are the ones unable to find someone to open up to. Its an unnecessary tragedy: theres a WALDO for everyone, but for many, the search comes up empty.
We think we know where to find WALDO. Everyone wants to be with the talented, the powerful, the successful. Just as they search for those iconic glasses and cap in a Wheres Waldo? drawing, people look for specific traits in a friend. We equate being extraordinary with being desirable and compatible. As a result, the same few are sought over and over again. Just ask high school football stars and high-powered lawyers.
But real WALDOs don’t wear striped white-and-crimson shirts of skill or celebrity. Theyre the caricatures in the background of lifes mural- the ones that are glanced at for a millisecond and then passed over. On the surface, they appear unremarkable in every way. What makes WALDOs so elusive is how shockingly ordinary they are. They havent won an Oscar, written a bestseller, or conducted a multimillion dollar corporate merger. In fact, usually they are not very different from those who seek them: seemingly commonplace.
But its this similarity that makes WALDO, WALDO. Understanding the agonizing monotony of working in a cubicle from 9 to 5 is difficult when youre a circus performer or an Air Force pilot. If you like to spend Saturday night streaking through a public park, its hard to have a heart-to-heart with someone who prefers curling up with a good book at the public library. Connecting on the deepest levels with someone you cant empathize with is impossible. Thats why your WALDO may be completely different from anothers: each souls WALDO reflects who they are.
Finding WALDO means identifying those in the mural of life that resemble ourselves. Of course, its not nearly that simple. We cant just glance at this mural and immediately pick out those with congruent values. Those who locate WALDO know this; thats why they use a process of trial and error. They blatantly put themselves on the end of a hook and cast into the water, actively seeking those who will like what they see and take a bite. Sometimes these bold fisherman will pull up something that doesnt fit regulation, and theyll throw it back in the water. But once in a while, theyll catch something good enough to put in the keeper bucket. Thats where youll find WALDO.
</code></pre>
<p>I’d highly, highly, highly advise everyone to read the Harry Bauld’s absolutely remarkable “On Writing the College Application Essay” (c. 1985). It was already very “old” when I read it, but it’s advice, especially for UChicago applicants, will always be cutting edge. (It’s on Kindle for less than $8.)</p>
<p>I’m a pretty recent UChicago grad, work in a field (nonprofit marcom) that requires a whole mess of heartwarming, certainly promotional, and often technical writing. Take that for what it’s worth, and the following with a grain of salt, because I’m certainly no admissions counselor. Given what I’ve read, I’m terrifically interested to know how you all did because… </p>
<p>@karatekid666 you definitely know how to write, but I fear you’ve missed the thrust of this essay. (i.e. “Who are you?”)</p>
<p>@luminalcoin8 I kind of wish you hadn’t chosen to make Waldo an acronym, but it’s not a sticking point: the essay as a whole is really, really good.</p>
<p>@nicklillie I’m not wild about the closing thought (“Above the water, humans are largely intrusive, invasive, and center stage.”) Your prospective classmates at UChicago are very much above water, and the admissions office likely hopes that you do not consider interacting with them to be “unnatural.” I understand what you’re getting at, but there’s probably a nicer way of saying it. I’m only fussing about this because it’s an otherwise excellent essay. </p>
<p>@psychedelia I wish you’d devoted less to the conflict and more to the what-I-learned-from-it-here’s-the-hopeful-epilogue. (i.e. What did your dad say back?) Also read the Brothers Karamazov. You’ll like it a lot. </p>
<p>@elloelise I truly get it – applying to college blows. But this essay will hurt your chances anywhere you use it.</p>
<p>@texvic “Where’s Waldo” is a prompt that clearly invites a lot of abstract thinking, but you go from 0 to abstract super-quickly. Discrimination and stereotyping are topics that a lot of people have strong opinions about also, but it would help immensely if you discussed your personal experiences with it, more than just your thoughts on it.</p>
<p>@uchicagograd… how will this hurt my application? i already accepted the fact that i will be rejected :(</p>
<p>@elloelise – see, now I feel bad about saying that, and who knows, I might be completely wrong. But I earnestly believe, yes, it will hurt your application. </p>
<p>You are unique <em>somehow</em>, so write about it. Your essay is very bleak, a little too overtly self-promotional, and it doesn’t tell admissions counselors anything about you. Perhaps the biggest hurdle in writing college essays is getting past how much it all <em>sucks</em> (because applying to college definitely sucks, so I can see how tempting it is to write a big “THIS SUCKS” essay) and writing positively and personally about something other than the college application process. </p>
<p>You (especially) should read that book I talked about above. It’s very, very engaging and funny, insightful, and sheds a lot of light on the role a college essay plays and the people who are going to be reading it.</p>
<p>@UChicagoGrad, would you be willing to take a look at my essay?
(I don’t feel quite comfortable posting it here yet)</p>
<p>Thanks for the critiques, UChicagoGrad and others. I really hope that the admissions committee is looking more for writing ability and creativeness, as opposed to profundity or anything. </p>
<p>Ahh, I really should have spent more time on writing.</p>
<p>I would really love some feedback on my essay but don’t feel comfortable posting it. Would anyone be interested reviewing it?</p>
<p>I took the Waldo prompt really objectively and didn’t really say anything about myself directly…would that hurt the consideration for my essay?</p>
<p>@18sorensk: I’d be interested in reading your essay - just PM me. If you’ve submitted yours already, maybe we could swap?</p>
<p>@karatekid666 Hey, the essay is one of about a billion factors that goes into your application, so don’t sweat it too much. It’s just my opinion. I’d just keep in mind that…</p>
<ul>
<li>A lot of your fellow applicants are going to be good writers. </li>
<li>“So where is Waldo, really?” is not asking you for a writing sample – it’s an essay prompt on an application about you. They’ll be able to suss out whether you’re a good, creative writer from your essay, but you should always view any application essay as a way to convey something about you, beyond just your writing style and a secondary glimpse at your personality.</li>
</ul>
<p>Wow, I approached it with a totally different mindset. I’ll keep in mind your advice for all the essays I have yet to write for the regular admission cycle.</p>
<h2>You guys are starting to make me feel really, really worried about mine.</h2>
<p>In a third story apartment on the southeast side of the city sleeps a man, his solitary figure sprawled out on an old mattress between two perpendicular walls of flaking paint and cracking drywall. He doesn’t sleep deeply; in fact, he can’t remember the last time he slept at all. As the minutes drag by his heart beat begins to accelerate, first slowly, then at an increasingly rapid rate, peaking in a drumbeat that can be heard straight through the room’s thin walls—it was a nightmare.
The rhythmic roar of the train tracks outside the window, the howling screech of steel-on-steel shakes him from his shallow, fitful sleep. The man springs forward in his bed, the details of the dream falling from his mind like dead skin from a snake. The sudden catharsis leaves him confused, but the unmistakable stench of stale fear lingers on the sheets. Slowly his head swivels towards the nightstand and its ancient digital clock, under the ghostly outward-layer of dust the red numbers read 6:53 a.m. For a moment, he sits and tries to remember what it was that so-terrorized him in the dream, but specifics fail to come, and he finds himself in a state of abject frustration.
Acting almost entirely on instinct, the man rolls himself out from under his blanket and attempts to stand, each joint offering a creak of disapproval. Half walking, half dragging, he stumbles his way across the floor and into the bathroom, fumbling almost blindly around the sink, grabbing a hold of a frayed toothbrush and a nearly empty tube of toothpaste. Applying the contents to his mouth he moves his arm in a detached, almost automatic motion. As he brushes his sight wanders up and down the walls of the room, eventually locking eyes with his own reflection through the chipped remnants of a mirror. The man must have studied himself for a good three minutes before he remembers the toothpaste in his mouth. Spitting out the foamy white residue he cups a handful of water from the tap and raises it to his mouth. The fluid is murky and reeks of filth and for a moment he stands there, keeled over, desperately fighting his gag reflex. The ordeal finished, the man gives the sink a final rinse and walks back to the bed. Grabbing a hold of the only visible item of clothing, a red-and-white-striped jumper, he pauses momentarily, inspecting it for tears, and then slips into the familiar garment.
Outside his building the city is already alive with mobs of thousands swarming up and down the avenues of the bustling metropolis. Weaving between the groups of schoolchildren and professionals, no doubt on their morning commutes, the man melts into the chaos of the crowd, becoming indistinct from the amalgam. For some inexplicable reason, robbed of his identity in the midst of the masses, the man begins to feel strangely at home, the lack of individuality bringing with it a twisted sense of security. Allowing himself to be swept along by the current of bodies, the man lets his mind wander; again he tries to recall the components of last night’s dream, but again he returns from the recesses of his mind empty handed—his only memories chronicling cold terror, nothing more. With each rejection, each failed effort at recall, the man slides further along the continuum towards outright anger. Needing to clear his head, he veers left, out of the crowd and through the doors of a nearby diner.
He plods to a corner booth, far removed from the other patrons of the establishment. The near ancient waitress shuffles over to him, asking in her ragged voice if he’s ready to order. Absent-mindedly, the man asks for coffee before dismissing the woman with a cursory wave of his hand. He leans over, elbows on the table, palms around his temples as if he’s trying to yank the memories from between his ears. The man scours the very corners of his psyche, barely containing his desire to let out a vexed scream, but still no answers come. The waitress returns with his coffee, inquiring as to whether he would like cream or sugar, but he doesn’t hear her—her insignificant crowing blotted out entirely by the melee inside his skull. When the man finally looks up, the woman is gone, in her place, a plastic creamer cup and two packets of artificial sweetener. He stares at his coffee sniffing at its earthy vapor, but his appetite is gone. Peeling out whatever singles are left in his wallet, the man leaves his payment on the table before making his way to the door, his mind still abuzz with activity.
Reemerging in the open air of the city, he’s hit by a wall of noise and exhaust fumes. He trots slowly, rejoining the crowd of perpetual motion that whirls around him. As he falls into the arms of the mob, the man begins to question the validity of his search. Mid step, mid thought, he freezes, one foot still hovering inches above the pavement. He attempts to will his body into motion, consciously thinking, commanding his limbs to move, but he finds only denial. He tries to scream to the others around him for help, hoping that somebody will take notice, but no noise escapes his mouth, his words an unintelligible gargle trapped in his throat. Then the fear, familiar in the most terrifying of ways, begins to tighten its cold grip around him; it’s the fear from his nightmare, the fear whose unknown progenitor thwarts even the most dogged attempts at remembrance. But amidst the fear comes a perverse peace; he knows—not through logic or evidence but intuition—that what has haunted him for so long is close to revelation.
He struggles, rolling his eyes skyward just in time to see a figure obscure the sun, its long shadow chilling the air below. The man, more confused than scared, wonders exactly what hovers overhead. Then the figure begins its descent, its shadow growing larger and darker across the ground, seemingly drawn by some unknown force towards the man. He makes a final attempt to see the exact details of what approaches, barely discerning swirling ridges covering an oblong body that bears peculiar resemblance to the fleshy pad of a finger. He feels the object press down on him, its bizarre warmth covering his head and body, its weight squeezing out of him whatever air is left in his lungs. Far off in the distance, the man hears an eerily familiar tone, repetitive and shrill, like the laughter of a child. For a moment, he thinks he understands, but he can’t be sure, and with uncertainty ringing through his mind, he slips into the infringing blackness.</p>
<p>Bertrand I like it, the imagery is vivid and the story is captivating, except I don’t understand it at all. What was the main point? Or am I supposed to be confused? It’s really good writing though, in my opinion…</p>
<p>@UChicagoGrad… Thanks a lot! The conclusion was a point of emphasis although I decided to just go with how I felt. I think it matched the rest of the essay. All the feedback on the rest of it has been positive…so I guess that’s a good sign? haha</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>My goal a narrative written from waldo’s perspective as he goes through the day unable to remember a nightmare (which is his “discovery” by forces that exist outside of his book) culminating in a reunion with the object of his amnesiatic fear, but also an understanding and submission to forces that he knows he doesn’t completely understand, ultimately leading to a perverse peace via an acceptance of his fear and ignorance.</p>
<p>It was supposed to be a look at Waldo from the “other side of the tracks” so to speak; I wanted to take a symbol of childhood play and innocence and corrupt him (as wrong as that sounds) in order to articulate on the idea that even the most seemingly lighthearted of characters can have a dark side. </p>
<p>The essay as a whole was supposed to be a metaphor for an aspect of my own personality ie: I reject ambiguity and confusion, and ignorance is not bliss but rather torture which can only be alleviated by truth and understanding, no matter how terrifying.</p>
<p>Uhhhhh hopefully the admissions people get it. The whole thing flew over my head. I think it would’ve been helpful if a couple sentences were added from what you just posted to help the reader along, but it’s also possible that I’m just an idiot. :p</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>I doubt it
I think I just killed my chances</p>
<p>this is all very much… vomit inducing</p>
<p>Try not to worry too much. It’s out of our hands now, all that’s left to do is check our decisions… I have purposefully not reread my app after submitting cause I’m sure I’ll find a typo and then jump off a bridge. Looking at your stats from the Dartmouth thread I think you have a very good shot at UChicago, and frankly I’m surprised you were rejected from Dartmouth! Don’t stress. 
Your essay was masterfully written even if the meaning was nebulous.</p>
<p>Your essay is beautiful and so very vivid. Contrary to what the other member said (which seems very mean-spirited considering, as he/she points out, it is out of our hands and everyone is already so worried, no need to be discouraging), I think it will be very impressive to UChicago admissions. This is a supplemental essay not a personal essay: it doesn’t have to the deepest, most meaningful thing you have ever written or have anything to do with you, it just needs to show skill and originality, which it does.
God, I even finally created an account here after months of putting it off just to tell you this (I know how stressful and questioning this whole thing is).
And by the way, I love “As he falls into the arms of the mob…”</p>
<p>BertrandMisc ^^^^^^^^^^^^
In my haste to create an account I did not notice that I messed up my username, I could not stand it…
And I am not quite aware if the “reply” button directly replies to that post or in general, but just in case: the above is a reply to you.</p>