I can’t
remember a time when I didn't know about the personal statement. It’s a
constant presence in my life; an inescapable dread haunts me, like the morbid
dog “the Grim” from Harry Potter at my heels.
And then,
the day comes. Assembly. “It’s time for you to start thinking about your
personal statements”, a sonorous voice booms across the theatre. A girl begins
to cry. I finally know I am not mad -- they all see it too! They all see the
spectre of UCAS! And yet, this is no victory at all. I feel sick. More people
begin to weep. The voice ploughs on, relentless. “You need to explain why you
want to study your chosen degree” -- the sentence is broken, suddenly, by the
sound of someone wailing “BUT WHAT IF WE DON’T KNOW WHAT WE WANT TO STUDY?”.
The cold, glittering eyes find the person and abruptly skitter off them, and
everyone sitting near them edges away. They are already done for.
And now it
is just me and the blank white page. Not for long, though: the reports start to
roll in from my friends that they’ve done it, have conquered the beast -- “I
would like to study English Literature because” (Oxford applicant). “Natural
Sciences is the best course for me” (Cambridge). “Politics, Philosophy and
Economics because” (another Oxford). I am intimidated, and crush this down (I
am a good friend!) by helping them edit and adding suggestions: Ctrl+alt+m, add
comment, “Nice ending!”. Ctrl+alt+m, “This would make a good body paragraph but
you want a snappier opening”. Ctl+alt+m, “Delete! It doesn’t add anything”.
Finished -- with their work. Now it is me, the blank white page, and my
worries.
Tentatively,
I tap a single key. “I”. Nothing terrible happens! I live on! I gain courage,
finish a sentence, and begin to move more quickly -- discuss my lifelong love
for English Literature, my exalted status as the top borrower of the school
library, the books and poems and plays I’ve read and heard and seen and the
things I thought about them. It’s fine. It’s fine, and the spectre is gone. I
am sprinting, now, I know I can do it. I am inspired. Draft after draft
exits the protesting printer, and they are distributed to parents, teachers,
friends, relatives, strangers on the street who make eye contact: anyone who
stands still long enough. The criticisms roll back, but I am still on the high
of inspiration; like a good Literature student would, I learn from the
criticisms. I rewrite, I rebuild, stronger. I pay, I click, and I send;
the modern veni, vidi, vici.
And out of
the corner of my eye I see it. Three thousand words of English coursework --
and my inspiration nowhere to be found.
