CA Prompt #1: Some students have a background, identity, interest or talent that is so meaningful they believe their application would be incomplete without it. If this sounds like you, then please share your story (500-650 word limit).
I need help shortening it just a little bit (it's like 660 words) and editing/revising.
As forty-two pairs of hands in the local temple's summer camp concentrated on transforming mundane terractta pots, I mindlessly refilled foam paint trays and controlled the demanding glitter supply, thousands of ideas swirling through my head. I was constantly giving the campers ideas if they needed help with their pots, but was unable instruct myself on beautifying my own.
After cleaning the mess, I finally sat down on the floor with my own terracotta pot, determined to "beautify" it during the allotted counselors' break time. Trying to create the perfect color, I spent at least ten minutes just mixing acrylic paints. The wet blob on my tray transitioned from vomit-like brown to burgundy to a pretty auburn, though none of the shades reflected the one I had in mind. I soon gained an audience of several counselors and campers as I continued to work in my little world. As nineteen pairs of eyes stared on, I finally smiled at the color I created: light crimson, the perfect background for the design already painting itself inside my head.
I dipped the smallest paintbrush in yellow, and to my horror, it splattered a huge yellowish brown dot on my beautifully painted pot. I frantically covered it with the leftover crimson paint, but the bristles of the brush left a wet mark on the already dried pot, creating a frustrating clash of textures. I went over the entire pot again with another coat using a spongy brush, this time dabbing the wet paint over with my finger, creating a slightly rough texture and evening out the paint.
At last, the entire pot was neatly covered in dried paint; the border, smoothly painted pistachio green, created a pretty contrast to the rest of the pot, colored a roughly textured crimson. Thirty paintbrushes and sponges sat in a large bucket in front of me, though none were able to accomplish what I had in mind. Not losing heart, I rummaged through an old cabinet, and returned with a short, stubby pencil. The look on everyone's face shifted from confusion to awe as I dipped it in paint and began delineating the flowers. With my eyebrows creased in concentration and thirty-eight eyes fixed on me, I used the eraser tip to dot eight perfect, bright yellow circles in a stagger on the pink background and white ones around the green border. After releasing a breath I hadn't known I was holding, I continued with the pencil tip to create tiny petals. My alternative tool had proved quite successful and I continued to use it, dipping the stubby pencil tip in leafy green paint to connect each of the flowers with thin vines. The lead began drawing lightly on the rough crimson paint, though, and it took almost fifteen minutes of dipping and lightly painting the vines to complete them. Finally, after scrutinizing every single detail multiple times, I decided I was satisfied.
The campers gawked in admiration at the drying pot while the other teen counselors shook their head in disbelief, not understanding why I wasted my hour-long break to perfect the little pot, telling me it could've just taken twenty minutes, not ninety, to make it look good. I told them good wasn't enough, perfect was. This mentality of perfection is reflected in almost everything I do. Whether it's a chore given by my parents or a project assigned in school, I've always put my best effort into each of my tasks. My habit of constant perfection is not only complimented by others, but also gives me the self-satisfaction I always crave. The truth is that I fear the flaws that will appear in my work if it does not reflect my ultimate potential, whether anyone notices them or not. Sometimes, the work I've done to perfect something has been acknowledged, and sometimes, it hasn't, but I can never sleep at night knowing I have given something less than my best.
I need help shortening it just a little bit (it's like 660 words) and editing/revising.
As forty-two pairs of hands in the local temple's summer camp concentrated on transforming mundane terractta pots, I mindlessly refilled foam paint trays and controlled the demanding glitter supply, thousands of ideas swirling through my head. I was constantly giving the campers ideas if they needed help with their pots, but was unable instruct myself on beautifying my own.
After cleaning the mess, I finally sat down on the floor with my own terracotta pot, determined to "beautify" it during the allotted counselors' break time. Trying to create the perfect color, I spent at least ten minutes just mixing acrylic paints. The wet blob on my tray transitioned from vomit-like brown to burgundy to a pretty auburn, though none of the shades reflected the one I had in mind. I soon gained an audience of several counselors and campers as I continued to work in my little world. As nineteen pairs of eyes stared on, I finally smiled at the color I created: light crimson, the perfect background for the design already painting itself inside my head.
I dipped the smallest paintbrush in yellow, and to my horror, it splattered a huge yellowish brown dot on my beautifully painted pot. I frantically covered it with the leftover crimson paint, but the bristles of the brush left a wet mark on the already dried pot, creating a frustrating clash of textures. I went over the entire pot again with another coat using a spongy brush, this time dabbing the wet paint over with my finger, creating a slightly rough texture and evening out the paint.
At last, the entire pot was neatly covered in dried paint; the border, smoothly painted pistachio green, created a pretty contrast to the rest of the pot, colored a roughly textured crimson. Thirty paintbrushes and sponges sat in a large bucket in front of me, though none were able to accomplish what I had in mind. Not losing heart, I rummaged through an old cabinet, and returned with a short, stubby pencil. The look on everyone's face shifted from confusion to awe as I dipped it in paint and began delineating the flowers. With my eyebrows creased in concentration and thirty-eight eyes fixed on me, I used the eraser tip to dot eight perfect, bright yellow circles in a stagger on the pink background and white ones around the green border. After releasing a breath I hadn't known I was holding, I continued with the pencil tip to create tiny petals. My alternative tool had proved quite successful and I continued to use it, dipping the stubby pencil tip in leafy green paint to connect each of the flowers with thin vines. The lead began drawing lightly on the rough crimson paint, though, and it took almost fifteen minutes of dipping and lightly painting the vines to complete them. Finally, after scrutinizing every single detail multiple times, I decided I was satisfied.
The campers gawked in admiration at the drying pot while the other teen counselors shook their head in disbelief, not understanding why I wasted my hour-long break to perfect the little pot, telling me it could've just taken twenty minutes, not ninety, to make it look good. I told them good wasn't enough, perfect was. This mentality of perfection is reflected in almost everything I do. Whether it's a chore given by my parents or a project assigned in school, I've always put my best effort into each of my tasks. My habit of constant perfection is not only complimented by others, but also gives me the self-satisfaction I always crave. The truth is that I fear the flaws that will appear in my work if it does not reflect my ultimate potential, whether anyone notices them or not. Sometimes, the work I've done to perfect something has been acknowledged, and sometimes, it hasn't, but I can never sleep at night knowing I have given something less than my best.