Hometown: Glendale, California, USA

High School: Private all-female school, 47 students in graduating class

Ethnicity: Asian and Black

Gender: Female

GPA: 4.2 out of 4.0

SAT: n/a

ACT: 33

SAT Subject Tests Taken: Physics, Literature, U.S. History

Extracurriculars: Chamber orchestra—first violin, creative writing, varsity swimming, club swimming

Awards: Departmental honors: English, Latin, history; member of Cum Laude Society, first-place winner in Fox Classics Writing Contest hosted by Monmouth College

Major: Undecided

Example college application essay

I’m better at writing other people’s stories than I am at writing my own. You could ask me to write a twenty-page story about a scrawny Roman soldier who cries during battle, and I could do it easily (and I have), but if you asked me to write a few words about myself, I’d be hard pressed to give you any. I live in worlds that aren’t my own and spend my days walking through classical Greece or attending Liszt concerts in busy nineteenth-century Paris all while sitting quietly at my desk with my elbow propped up on a math textbook. I’ve seen Achilles fight on the Trojan beach; I’ve laughed at Mozart cracking crude jokes among a flurry of sheet music and wine. I’ll write all of these things for you before I write about myself, because the things I see in my mind’s eye are more compelling than real life. I write because it allows me to forget myself, to lose myself in cobblestone streets so tangible that I bump into French revolutionaries who shout “Vive la liberté” as I shove by, only to discover upon glancing in the mirror that I am in fact a French revolutionary myself, with a slightly tattered cockade pinned to my lapel. My name isn’t Sheridan; in fact, it’s Antoine, and I have a nearly unrivaled dedication to the Republic.

In truth, I write because I found myself weak in the face of my reality. My life isn’t particularly difficult or tragic, but I’m sensitive, and I sometimes feel out of place in my social world. Though I have friends that I cherish, I’ve often felt that I’ve been on the outside, be it because of my African American roots or simply the fact that our interests don’t quite line up, but year after year of the same isolating experience left me wanting escape, and I found myself wondering in history class, wandering the halls of Versailles in my mind with Louis XIV or reciting poetry with the Roman emperor Augustus. These places were far away from the lunch table, far away from social dramas and empty Kleenex boxes, but yet, they were familiar enough to be comfortable. When I wrote my little twenty-page (and slightly historically inaccurate) story about a scrawny Roman soldier, Crescentius Avitus, I was a sophomore who had no idea what battle was like. I didn’t know how to jab someone with a spear or how to march in a Roman legion, but I did know what it was like to feel inadequate and what it was like to feel alone. In unfamiliar social situations, I tensed up the way Crescentius did as he gripped his sword and shield, I shivered the way he did under his clattering helmet. As I wrote, I got lost in Crescentius’ world through my connection with his humanity. My love for history and my love for writing stem from my realization that history was made of people who cried the way I cried, laughed the way I laughed. I could forget myself because I wasn’t the only one to feel the way that I felt. I doubt that the French revolutionaries I bumped into earlier experienced anger that was different from the anger that I experienced. I write about others because humanity isn’t an individual experience, and allowing yourself to experience the burden of humanity through sharing it with others is far easier than trying to understand it by yourself. This exchange goes both ways, and I use it to gain qualities that I lack. I am not particularly confident, but Antoine is. Through him, I learn to greet adversity with a grin and a fire; I learn to treat the lunch table like he would treat the podium at the National Convention, and through my experience in his world, I know how to hold my head high and fearlessly.

REVIEW

Sheridan begins by introducing us to her curious relationship with writing: While she seems secure in her ability to fictionalize history, she also expresses some reserve about using individual life experiences as subject matter. It’s a smart admission to make, especially in response to a prompt that requires her to engage in that which she most fears: self-disclosure.

Perhaps the most powerful testament to Sheridan’s appreciation of narrative is her own crisp prose. Her grasp of language imbues the essay with a lyrical and rhythmic energy. Though her declarations sometimes veer on the fanciful and hyperbolic, they convince the reader of her earnest wit and reveal details—albeit passing ones— about personal difficulties. Using historical places and events—like Versailles and the National Convention—as storytelling devices, Sheridan casts herself as a socially anxious protagonist who derives courage from, and solace in, the past.

Sheridan also uses an endearing, even self-effacing, kind of humor that convinces readers of her authenticity. By describing her twenty-page story about the “scrawny” Crescentius Avitus as “little”— and admitting, too, that it was “slightly historically inaccurate”— she shows a balanced perspective. While relaying her emotions with a measure of gravity, Sheridan knows not to take herself, or her work, too seriously; at the end of the day, after all, she inhabits a reality filled with “empty Kleenex boxes” and not bloodied spears.

Overall, Sheridan builds to a potent conclusion: Empathy, we learn, drives her passion for stories—both reading, and writing, them. Citing a desire to relate to people as her primary motivation, Sheridan appears a sympathetic and likable character: an ideal addition, in short, for a student body.

From 50 Successful Harvard Application Essays, 5th Edition edited by the Staff of the Harvard Crimson. Copyright (c) 2017 by the authors and reprinted by permission of St. Martin's Publishing Group.