What I Ended Up Sending to Yale

The number 500 has never seemed so small.

As I fumble wretchedly in an attempt to cut my essay down to 500 words, one particular line from the movie Amadeus replays over and over in my mind. At one point, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart complains to Antonio Salieri, "It's unbelievable. They say I have to rewrite the opera. But it's perfect as it is! I can't rewrite what's perfect!"

Oh, Mozart. I understand exactly how it feels.

Granted, I am no literary Mozart, and the essay can hardly be compared to his great opera, The Marriage of Figaro. But any artist can comprehend that feeling of motherly protectiveness one develops for her work of art. After all, I have spent hours prying and poking my inner self, like a scientist examining an unknown specimen, hoping to discover something ground-breaking. The result? One of the rawest, most personal essays I have ever written. It weaves two stories about my dual passions -- psychology and writing -- together with an anecdote on the first time I watched the French psychological thriller, A La Folie... Pas Du Tout. It recounts various snippets of my childhood memories mixed with details of my future vocational aspirations. It is thoughtful. It is beautiful. It is perfect.

But alas, my baby is 362 words overweight.

I am tempted to simply upload the document and click "Submit" without a second thought, but the warning on the Yale Admissions FAQ ("you will not help yourself by seeming to have ignored our request") looms menacingly on the web page. Grimacing with the seriousness of a surgeon preparing for an operation, I wield my computer mouse and, with a finger hovering over the backspace key, prepare to administer an abdominoplasty operation on my bulging essay.

Initially, the process sails smoothly. I remove some extraneous details, trimming away until the word count reaches 642 words. Then, I begin to encounter the same obstacle women encounter every holiday season nestled around their hips and thighs -- the fat that refuses to go away.

Whenever budget crises ensue in the educational system, the art programs are the first to be cut. Following suit, I begin to remove adjectives. "Concocted mess of miscommunication and love triangles" is reduced to merely "cliches." The actress Audrey Tautou is no longer referred to by name; her character's name, Angelique, is used instead, effectively shaving off six words from the word count. "Hemingway, Hemingway," I repeat, sounding like the "I think I can" train from The Little Engine that Could.

By the time I reach 598 words, I am distraught. My essay, once an exuberant girl with the round rosiness of a cherub, now languishes like a supermodel who has not eaten for weeks. And I still have 98 words to go.

But I am a flexible, calculating person. When I fight, I push myself to the limit. But, I also recognize when I am fighting a losing battle. And so, I now present an essay of exactly 500 words.

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What I ended up using for the Yale Supplemental essay. I kid you not.