Tufts Blogs

A funny thing happened when my family got our first computer in the early 2000s. During the brief window of time each day when this clunky desktop computer belonged to me and my whims, I was devoted to Microsoft Word. I used it to write down my angsty thoughts, sure, and to see what sorts of illustrations ClipArt had to offer me. But my favorite activity—what brought me back time and time again—was thesaurusing.

Here’s how it works. Type a sentence into Word—just any normal sentence, in the way that you would normally speak. An example:

I walked home under a blue sky.

Then, hover your cursor above each of those words, right click for “thesaurus,” and a list unfolds. Watch a new, fancier sentence take shape:

I sauntered homewards beneath an azure sky.

See? This never failed to entertain me. Who would call the sky “blue” when you could call it “azure”? Blue was boring!

I credit the thesaurus, in part, with my love of writing and my eventual English degree. It taught me about the importance of sound and the meaning created by subtle variations in diction. I say all of this so that you’ll take me seriously when I now tell you the following: As you prepare to write or finish writing your college essays, I want you to walk over to your desk, open your drawer, grab your thesaurus, and toss it out the nearest window. (Just humor me here and pretend that you do indeed own a print thesaurus that you keep in your desk drawer.)

Here’s the thing. When it comes to college essays, we are trying to hear your voice. Sure, it can be a voice amplified by self-reflection. In essays that you’ve worked hard to write, you might come out sounding funnier, or more curious, or just plain cooler than you do in a typical conversation with your friends. But the cadence of your words and the perspective you bring to the page should be genuinely you.

I walk home many days under a blue sky. I have never once sauntered homewards beneath an azure sky. If I came up and told you that I had just sauntered homewards beneath an azure sky, you would probably be concerned for me, or think I had just returned from a stint at an archaic school for conversation and manners. My words wouldn’t sound natural.

And when you’re trying to communicate something important about who you are with the reader of your application, you want your words to sound natural. Natural is the doorway to our understanding of you and our appreciation of your story. That doesn’t mean your writing can’t make use of literary techniques, or read lyrically, or show off a good grasp of vocabulary. It also doesn’t mean that specific words, including those mentioned in this blog, are off-limits. (My colleague Alex Most happens to love the word “azure.” He also points out that azure’s good friend “cerulean” is the name of a city in Pokémon—and you can’t go wrong with Pokémon.)

Just don’t let formality, “overwriting,” or obsessively polishing your essays squeeze them completely dry of your voice, your playfulness, and your identity. Get rid of your thesaurus, and let us really get to know you.