Over the course of the past few weeks, I’ve been spending a lot of time working on my college applications, which should be going out sometime over the course of the next few weeks. Or so I hope.

Anyone who has ever filled out a college application knows this process is intimidating. Each word you type into the viewfinder (or write on paper, if the traditional mail-in-method tickles your fancy) drips with a very scary sense of permanency. But, I wouldn’t go so far to say applying to colleges is painful. I actually find the process to be - dare I say it? – fun. Whenever I fill out my "prospective major," my standardized test scores, the high school awards I’ve received, etc., I’ll admit, I get a little rush; I get treated to a sampling of a certain flavor of happiness called "Common App Content," fresh for the fall application season.

I suppose I enjoy it so much because I feel like every time I complete a new page of the application, I’m one step closer to getting to college.

That is, until I hit the "essays" page of the application.

That’s when I realize "Common App Content" carries a bit of a caustic aftertaste. The little white box with the blinking black typing tool in it starts to look evil. So, I retreat, scrolling back through the rest of my application, where the hardest question is "Mother: College: Year Graduated?" The white boxes in this part of the application are smaller and less scary. I feel very accomplished knowing I can answer all of them – and correctly.

Or so I hope.

"Explain, in less than 500 words, what compelled you to apply to University X."  Are you sure my social security number isn’t the right answer?

Don’t get me wrong – I like to write, and I especially like writing the type of essay most colleges ask you to write: the reflective essay. The essay requires you talk about the subject you know best (or so Frida Kahlo claimed): yourself. (Any props for the art history reference?) What I find scary is the weight behind the words. Your college essay is one of the few parts on your application where you’re able to show that behind the SAT scores and grades, a real person, with intellectual prowess and a shimmering personality, exists. But writing an essay that does this effectively isn’t as straightforward as reporting your date of birth. And it’s much easier to mess up (for most of us, at least).

How do you know when you’ve written the perfect essay? Under this general question fall a variety of other questions: Did I choose the best topic possible to write about? Is my essay too long? Is it too short? Did I include enough detail? Did I include too much detail? Does this actually reveal anything about me? Is my essay too biased? Is it edgy or just plain strange? What would Simon Cowell think of it?

Now that I think about it, being a contestant on American Idol (in the initial rounds, at least) is an excellent analogy for the college essay writing process. Not that many of us have ever been contestants on American Idol, or anything. But I’m pretty sure we’ve all imagined at one point or another what it would be like.

On American Idol, a contestant’s success depends on – or so the judges say – choosing the "right" song. After this, success depends on executing the technical points with enough precision so the judges know you actually know how to sing, while having the guts and the creativity to "make it your own." Hit those two notes – oh, and throw some nicely applied guyliner and some awesome glam rock outfits into the mix – and you’re well on your way to Hollywood.

Likewise, nailing "The College Essay" requires (in part) that you choose the right topic. It also requires that you demonstrate you know how to write without sounding like some sort of impersonal robot. The essay should resonate with tones of a real personality (or so some admissions counselors say). Throw some flair and spunk – intellectual guyliner, if you will – into the mix, and you’ve sung a song fine enough to impress a Harvard admissions counselor – depending, of course, on whether said counselor is a Randy, a Simon, or a Pau- I mean, Ellen.  

Or so I hope.