Here's a draft of my Common App essay. I know that the subject is a bit cliche but it really resonated with me and I'd like to get advice on how I can improve it. Thanks!
PROMPT: Describe a place or environment where you are perfectly content. What do you do or experience there, and why is it meaningful to you?
The Pevensies have their wardrobe. Bastian Bux has Fantastica. And I, [NAME] of the far flung, mystical suburb of [CITY], [STATE] have my room. Sure
it's humble,even quaint. Its thirteen by eleven square footage doesn't leave much to treasure hunts or vanquishing evil queens but in the same vein, it allows for a rather promising amount of escapism. Even without the amenities of wizards acting as tour guides.
In the center of the room stands a queen sized bed on which I've mastered a variety of effective sleeping positions, ranging from the "free fall" to the classic fetal position. On top of it lies a decaying yet competent laptop that I've dissected and repaired many times before. My bookshelf is cast off in a rather nondescript corner of my room. It is laden with costly treasures- a world civilization book, a wide array of fantasy novels that holds exclusive rights to the top shelf, a stray Southern Gothic, and a biology book or two. I'd recline backwards in my chair and pick up a book, reading it, leafing through its pages, or simply staring at the cover as my mind would disengage the remnants of an AP U.S. history lecture.
Many of my greatest works have been produced in this safe haven. The likes spanning from screenplays for my favorite primetime dramas (or as dubbed by the mainstream, "fan fiction"), a regretfully angst ridden 'poem' from sixth grade, to the first grade country classic "yucky,yucky hands". "Yucky, yucky hands. You better wash your hands" "Because if you don't, your mother will say 'yucky, yucky hands'." Brilliant? Inspired? I'd say so.
Such like-minded creative pursuits have also made their way into spontaneous doodlings as I lay nestled within a bundle of quilted comforters,
grasping a pencil and inhaling the wafts escaping from a cup of chamomile tea.
Of course, the escapist theme has made its way to less constructive pursuits as I vented frustration with celebration. This phenomena is best observed
in the cooling off periods that accompany particularly mentally taxing exams as I'd transform my queen sized bed into a jam packed arena. I'd lip sync the
opening chorus from a Korean pop songs as "Mr.Simple" blared from my stereo, permeating the walls of my room as a blaze of electronic dissonance.
Sometimes when the urge to collapse on bed in an exhausted heap is especially overwhelming, I'm emboldened enough to postpone rescuing a homework assignment crushed under the weight of various books or to even ignore my mother's screeches from downstairs, summoning me down to take out the trash. I'd slink up the stairs and towards my room, leaving all house rules at the door and abiding by my own: dance around if you need to, cry if you want to, and here, it's O.K. to wear undergarments that don't match . Shoes, book bags, and the occasional pair of pants would be strewn in various corners of the room. Lying on my bed and quite honestly bored of being bored, I was suddenly bombarded by racing thoughts. I'd strive to remember the name of the lead in the latest film I watched (was it Keith David...or was it David Keith?). I'd wonder if it were finally time to dig out my book on American foreign policy in the Middle East or rather, to conquer the literary behemoth (I mean this both literally and figuratively) also known as Les Misérables.I would question my relationships with my friends and of what I mean to them and what they mean to me. I'd meditate on past test questions and furiously scribble on a notepad in an illegible chicken scratch.
Then for a fleeting moment, my stampeding thoughts would crawl to a standstill in a moment that was frozen in complete silence and accompanied by a welcoming sense of calm. I'd Indulge in the sensations of that moment: the indiscreet murmurs of family members, the stirring hum of the air conditioner, the sunbeams escaping my window. I'd give my clock the occasional sideways glance, frustrated with the duality of time: the minute hand would sluggishly wax into the succeeding hour and before I knew it, it would already be midnight. My mind would drift off as I gazed into the spinning arms of the ceiling fan.
The moments that I've spent in my room act as small pockets of time that allow me to escape from the torrential downpours of homework, extracurricular activities, and everything else in between , all while enabling the freedom of keeping things in perspective.
Though I'm not quite sure if my room is ready to be used as the set of the latest fantasy book adaptation.
PROMPT: Describe a place or environment where you are perfectly content. What do you do or experience there, and why is it meaningful to you?
The Pevensies have their wardrobe. Bastian Bux has Fantastica. And I, [NAME] of the far flung, mystical suburb of [CITY], [STATE] have my room. Sure
it's humble,even quaint. Its thirteen by eleven square footage doesn't leave much to treasure hunts or vanquishing evil queens but in the same vein, it allows for a rather promising amount of escapism. Even without the amenities of wizards acting as tour guides.
In the center of the room stands a queen sized bed on which I've mastered a variety of effective sleeping positions, ranging from the "free fall" to the classic fetal position. On top of it lies a decaying yet competent laptop that I've dissected and repaired many times before. My bookshelf is cast off in a rather nondescript corner of my room. It is laden with costly treasures- a world civilization book, a wide array of fantasy novels that holds exclusive rights to the top shelf, a stray Southern Gothic, and a biology book or two. I'd recline backwards in my chair and pick up a book, reading it, leafing through its pages, or simply staring at the cover as my mind would disengage the remnants of an AP U.S. history lecture.
Many of my greatest works have been produced in this safe haven. The likes spanning from screenplays for my favorite primetime dramas (or as dubbed by the mainstream, "fan fiction"), a regretfully angst ridden 'poem' from sixth grade, to the first grade country classic "yucky,yucky hands". "Yucky, yucky hands. You better wash your hands" "Because if you don't, your mother will say 'yucky, yucky hands'." Brilliant? Inspired? I'd say so.
Such like-minded creative pursuits have also made their way into spontaneous doodlings as I lay nestled within a bundle of quilted comforters,
grasping a pencil and inhaling the wafts escaping from a cup of chamomile tea.
Of course, the escapist theme has made its way to less constructive pursuits as I vented frustration with celebration. This phenomena is best observed
in the cooling off periods that accompany particularly mentally taxing exams as I'd transform my queen sized bed into a jam packed arena. I'd lip sync the
opening chorus from a Korean pop songs as "Mr.Simple" blared from my stereo, permeating the walls of my room as a blaze of electronic dissonance.
Sometimes when the urge to collapse on bed in an exhausted heap is especially overwhelming, I'm emboldened enough to postpone rescuing a homework assignment crushed under the weight of various books or to even ignore my mother's screeches from downstairs, summoning me down to take out the trash. I'd slink up the stairs and towards my room, leaving all house rules at the door and abiding by my own: dance around if you need to, cry if you want to, and here, it's O.K. to wear undergarments that don't match . Shoes, book bags, and the occasional pair of pants would be strewn in various corners of the room. Lying on my bed and quite honestly bored of being bored, I was suddenly bombarded by racing thoughts. I'd strive to remember the name of the lead in the latest film I watched (was it Keith David...or was it David Keith?). I'd wonder if it were finally time to dig out my book on American foreign policy in the Middle East or rather, to conquer the literary behemoth (I mean this both literally and figuratively) also known as Les Misérables.I would question my relationships with my friends and of what I mean to them and what they mean to me. I'd meditate on past test questions and furiously scribble on a notepad in an illegible chicken scratch.
Then for a fleeting moment, my stampeding thoughts would crawl to a standstill in a moment that was frozen in complete silence and accompanied by a welcoming sense of calm. I'd Indulge in the sensations of that moment: the indiscreet murmurs of family members, the stirring hum of the air conditioner, the sunbeams escaping my window. I'd give my clock the occasional sideways glance, frustrated with the duality of time: the minute hand would sluggishly wax into the succeeding hour and before I knew it, it would already be midnight. My mind would drift off as I gazed into the spinning arms of the ceiling fan.
The moments that I've spent in my room act as small pockets of time that allow me to escape from the torrential downpours of homework, extracurricular activities, and everything else in between , all while enabling the freedom of keeping things in perspective.
Though I'm not quite sure if my room is ready to be used as the set of the latest fantasy book adaptation.
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