If you were to gather snapshots of yourself at different points in time, no snapshot would be the same. You might be hanging out with different people. You would be preoccupied with a different set of concerns. You might be dreaming different daydreams. Just two cross-sections of yourself at different times are enough to make the backbone of an essay.

For most students, the essay writing process spans three to seven hectic, difficult months. I acknowledge that is a long struggle for just a few pages’ worth of words. What is important to note though, is that the most difficult part of the entire process is the beginning. No draft is more difficult than the first one—it is by far the most intimidating to write.

To introduce ourselves, tell our origin stories in the space of a page… the task seems so impossible we are shocked into inaction and procrastination. Don’t we all wish colleges could somehow magically read our thoughts, feel our feelings, recognize our virtues, and admit us? Truly, it is a shame we cannot simply lean over our desks and watch the words fall out of our heads onto the page in beautiful, perfectly formulated sentences. It is a shame we cannot simply be known. Sigh.

I acknowledge all students experience this block, and yet we cannot say “Please don’t judge me only by how I did in school” and then proceed to put off the essay that can encapsulate all that might be unrelated to school. Don’t let “perfect” get in the way of good—especially not with the first draft. You cannot arrive at a near-perfect final draft without starting your nowhere-near-good-enough first draft.

So let’s say you find the courage to start…

“How do I start?" The pressing question lingers.

Let us first consider this roll cake, cut into slices along its width. We can know a few things just by looking at it: we can guess its flavor and imagine its smell and taste. 

A more interesting observation we can make is that each cross-section of cake is just like the other, no matter at what point along the cake’s length you cut: same size, same texture, same flavored spiral cream filling. The cake is uniform through and through from one end to the other.

Now, you are not a roll cake (of course you are not). You are a three-dimensional human being, traveling along the fourth dimension, time. If you were to gather snapshots of yourself at different points in time, no snapshot would be the same. You would look different. You might be hanging out with different people. You would be preoccupied with a different set of concerns. You might be dreaming different daydreams.

And this is one way you can divide and conquer the impossible task of writing the essay: Use your pen as a knife, and slice yourself open at different points in time.

Cut at the present time. Who are you now?

Cut at some time in the past. Who were you?

Just these two cross-sections of yourself at different times are enough to make the backbone of an essay. You can flesh out the draft by explaining, as if you were a biologist or pastry chef or sports commentator, why and how the cross-sections of yourself turned out different (or similar). To assure you of the simplicity of cutting yourself up, I would like to share a few examples of “cross-sections,” taken online from published and publicly available essays I enjoyed.

The following three sentences show how student authors saw their past selves:

1. I was that type of kid to eat French Fries dry because I couldn’t confront the McDonalds cashier for some Heinz packets.

2. I couldn’t logically defend what I intuitively believed: that every human being has a right to good health.

3. The first time I walked into the weight room my freshman year, I entered a room packed with football players reeking of sweat, intensity, and competition.

The next three sentences are snapshots of how the same three student authors saw themselves at the time of writing:

1. I now confront issues instead of avoiding them.

2. I didn’t need an elaborate and intricate reason to prove to myself that health is an inalienable right for every human being—I needed self reflection.

3. I am no longer afraid of being the only person, only female, only water polo player in the weight room.

Note well that these sentences are taken from final, published drafts, likely heavily edited by their respective authors and the authors’ teachers. Don’t let the sophistication of these sentences scare you. Surely you can do the same. Start with just one sentence anchored at one point in time; then explain how you see yourself, and how you saw yourself differently over time. Reveal the stories and explanations behind your own cross-sections.

To conclude, I would like to reemphasize an idea I proposed in my previous post(Read: The Point of the Personal Statement: A Self-Portrait and Rite of Passage): It is necessary that you overcome the mental blocks and discomfort that comes with thinking about yourself. After all, you will be living with yourself for the rest of your life. It’s best to start cultivating a deeper relationship with yourself, now.