Go with the Flow in your Common App Essay (But Make it Fun) Sarah O'Neill Supreme Editing Coatesville

 Sarah O'Neill Supreme Editing Coatesville

After spending way too much time reading admissions essays (and having a blast, let’s be honest), I’ve cracked the code to what makes them so fun to read: flow. Yes, flow. I’d even go so far as to say it’s the secret sauce—the single most important ingredient. Period. (No pressure!)

Of course, you also need to sprinkle in your personality, so the admissions officer knows they’re reading about you, not some essay-writing robot from the future. But back to the flow…

So, how exactly do we sprinkle some magic dust over our sentences to make sure they glide like butter? If you’ve ever taken a creative writing course, you’ve probably heard of this mystical thing called “flow.” It’s so ethereal that most students try to define it by saying, “Uh, it has, like, rhythm” or “It’s kinda like music.” Sure, Karen. Super helpful. Let’s see if I can break it down a little better so your college essay doesn’t sound like a string of fortune cookie messages.

Now, some lucky writers just have it (cue collective groan). But don’t worry—you can absolutely learn how to make your writing flow smoother than a jazz saxophone solo. Ready?

Let me drop some wisdom from Ford Madox Ford—yes, that's his real name, no need to ask. He was a legendary editor who once declared a writer a genius after reading just one paragraph. Pretty bold move, right? So, what was it about this magical paragraph that wowed him? Two things:

1. The writer nailed the cadence.

2. The writer knew how to put together a paragraph like a jigsaw puzzle champ.

Here’s the paragraph that sent Ford into a frenzy of editorial joy (warning: it’s vintage):

“The small locomotive engine, Number 4, came clanking, stumbling down from Selston with seven full wagons. It appeared round the corner with loud threats of speed, but the colt that it startled from among the gorse, which still flickered indistinctly in the raw afternoon, out-distanced it at a canter...”

Okay, before you complain that this reads like it was written on a typewriter in 1895 (because, well, it kinda was), let’s look closer. The content? Eh, whatever. But the flow? That’s where the magic is. Ford loved it because the writer mixed up sentence structures like a pro—keeping readers on their toes, while also making sure every sentence had a smooth rhythm.

The takeaway? Vary your sentences! Long ones, short ones, throw in a medium one for fun. It’s like building a sentence-length rollercoaster: if everything’s flat, your writing will feel like driving through Nebraska. But with some peaks and valleys? Welcome to the Swiss Alps of prose, my friend.

We’ve barely scratched the surface here, but I’ll leave you with this: want more tips on making your essay flow like a dream? You know where to find me! (Hint: it’s your friendly neighborhood editor/mentor.)

Here is a Sample Essay that is as SMOOTH as Butter! 

(Admitted Stanford, by the way)

Transcending time and space, our living room is a portal to the past. Between its four walls, it holds the echoes of home concerts: wai gong belting out tunes from Peking Opera, while a younger me attacks the baby grand with gusto. Even now, I wish I could travel back to when I was five years old, poised on the piano bench, feet dangling. Hydrangeas and daylilies formed the audience as I, accentuating every note, played an (objectively poor) rendition of “Mary Had a Little Lamb.” As the dying fall hung in the air, wai gong sprung from the sofa, clapping with such intensity that you would have thought Rubenstein had just performed.

My grandfather, wai gong in Mandarin, has always been my best friend. My parents worked long hours when I was little, so wai gong walked me to school, prepared snacks for me, and entertained me with children’s books that detailed Shanghainese history. He managed to do all of this even though we never really spoke to one another. He only spoke Chinese and I English, but we did have a shared language: music. To soothe me to sleep, he sang traditional lullabies. On weekends, when our living room morphed into a glorious concert hall, wai gong stuffed the room with the smiling faces of his friends. After his masterful advertising, they sat on the edge of their seats to hear my renditions of Chopin’s Nocturnes and Liszt’s Etudes. Partly to entertain the crowd, partly to interest myself, I experimented with new dynamics and emotions. Our at-home performances gave me the confidence to play for even larger crowds like Carnegie Hall.

Three years ago, when I played Schumann’s Träumerei, something felt different. Wai gong repeatedly asked why I was playing so quietly. “That is how it is supposed to be played,” I said. When I played Brahms’s Intermezzos, he asked me to play louder. That was when my parents discovered that he was losing his hearing. I must admit, the news hit me hard. My mind flashed to Brahms and his sullen expression. How could I be so ignorant? My grandpa was there for me, but I couldn’t play louder enough for him. Would he ever hear music again? My worry led me to interact with him differently.

From then on, I began showing him videos of Peking Opera, inviting him to sit at the piano with me. I wanted him to observe, up close, what I was playing. He still seemed lost, and so did I. As his hearing declined, it felt as if I were losing my best friend. My frustration at not being able to help led me to create my own solution during a service project. I call it the Fund for the Aid of Hearing and Vision Impairments (FAHVI). I was fortunate to partner with Dr. Rhee Nesson of The Hearing Doctors of New Jersey. Together we held fundraisers. At one of them, we met a man named Johnnie, a senior from Newark, whose hearing impairment impacted his relationship with his wife, Martha. Prior to being fitted for hearing aids, Johnnie was anxious, worrying they would not work. But Martha said, “No matter what, we’ll figure it out.” That was when I realized, even after every bake sale and 5K, how naive I had been to think that wai gong would return to normal. I wanted so badly to recapture the past that I had lost sight of connecting with him again. Following my realization, I readjusted how we communicate by learning Chinese characters so we could talk about his childhood memories. I also became his partner in Tai Qi, our new rhythm. I even picked up Chinese chess, his favorite game.

Although I miss our concerts, the living room has now become a blank score of possibilities waiting for us to compose new “music” together - no matter the medium.

Sarah O'Neill Supreme Editing Coatesville