<p>Hi there!
I'm a junior and I decided to get an early jump on my common app essays. This is the first draft of the first one I have written for the failure prompt, shown here:
"Recount an incident or time when you experienced failure. How did it affect you, and what lessons did you learn?"
I have shown it to very competent individuals and I received mixed reviews.
I think that in terms of prose it is very successful, but I'm wondering whether the example is appropriate. I cannot currently think of a better one, but I may not be using this essay at all, so it's just as well.
A word of forewarning; The diction is a tad advanced for a college essay, but it is meant to be written in one's natural writing style, and this is mine. Thanks in advance and feel free to be as kind or as harsh as possible, but I ask that you substantiate all of your points. Thanks!</p>
<p>The Turpitudes of Success
I sit at my desk, recumbent, arms crossed behind my head, gazing at the ceiling pensively, as I recall all of my life in a diminutive 6x6 room saturated with books, clothing, and memories.
Failure is such a subjective concept… What is the hallmark of failure? Humility? Enlightenment? Anguish? Persistence? Resilience? Submission? Calamity? A number? In a house where below a 97 in anything is failure, where education is on par with health in exigency, by those metrics I have truly failed on multiple occasions.
Yet, those are such trivialities when compared with true tragedies, that they could hardly be considered true failures. Have I truly ever failed? Am I truly so arrogant that I have allowed hubris to obfuscate all nonfulfillment in my life?
And then, I recall a quote from one of my heroes, J.K. Rowling. She said, “You might never fail on the scale I did, but some failure in life is inevitable. It is impossible to live without failing at something, unless you live so cautiously that you might as well not have lived at all – in which case, you fail by default.”
My G-d. I am the latter. I have never truly experienced failure. Why? Have I really lived that cautiously? In not failing, have I failed by default? Have I completely neglected a critical portion of the human experience?
With a sudden jolt, I am upright, staring at my laptop, hands folded with lips pursed, eyebrows furrowed. As this existential crisis consumes me, it dawns upon me: the one continuity that has precluded failure throughout my life, the safety net that was tied inexorably to my wrist: my parents. Each time I stood teetering at the edge, with a powerful lurch, I was pulled back and extricated from the peril that befell me. I allowed it all to unfold, rather than taking the leap of faith.
The most ostensible instance of my parents saving me from the turpitudes of failure occurred during my sophomore year, during a time in which I learned, quite brusquely, that knowledge lies not in nepotism. My grandmother had been a chemist in the Soviet Union, and was in charge of many industrial affairs. In spite of her Jewish background and the systemized anti-Semitic, socialist dogma that permeated the air as much as the carbolic acid with which it was thick, she had been able to achieve impressive stature in her nation, regulating the output of products, for instance. Her role was critical to the welfare of the “Kievskaya Oblast.” Thus, when I waltzed into my sophomore Honors chemistry class, seeping with ignorant aplomb, certain that of all classes, this would be the one at which I excelled, it came as a shock when I received the most opprobrious grade of my life until that point: a 73. Crestfallen and shaken, I trudged home, expecting to face the unwieldy paw of a tiger. However, I experienced something tantamount to a kitten in ferocity. My father was concerned with my performance, and was determined to rectify this stain on my pristine academic record. He and I reviewed chemistry nightly, even sacrificing his own sleep to ensure my success. At an alarming rate, my grades in chemistry drastically improved, and I began to develop a deep love and admiration for the subject.
I am infinitely grateful that my father decided to help me in a subject that would become a focal point of my interest for so long. My safety net had caught me, and shot me back onto the tightrope. However, one day, in fact a day very soon, my safety net can no longer lay below me, ready to catch me, should anything go wrong. It is time for me to walk the tightrope of life without a net. It is time for me to fail.</p>