Good writing is tailored for the audience. The author must not only use appropriate and coherent language to communicate with the reader, but she ideally shall also convey her ideas with civility and respect. Offended readers plod through the words and phrases, disengaged and annoyed… or they simply stop reading.

Writing a personal statement for school or work (or other hierarchical institution) requires a thoughtful approach: On the one hand, you want to detail your desired objectives; on the other hand, you want to pique the reader’s curiosity so that you become his desired objective. This requires self-promotion and, like other types of courtship, it may feel deceptive.

I consistently have difficulty writing last sentences in personal statements. I want the last sentence to be a puff of pixie dust, a iridescent shower of glittering gold that leaves the reader in wonder. However, the reader is a potential future supervisor and thus, there can’t be so much wonder that the reader is put off: “Wow—that’s arrogant and smug.” Too much deference comes across as smarmy: “That’s called trying too hard.” A summary sentence is bland and mechanical: “(yawn)”

That’s a lot of pressure on the last sentence.

Here is the last sentence in draft #4:

And I loved the endless opportunities to learn and teach. I am a sponge and I love teaching.

For good measure (and because I was dissatisfied with what I had written thus far), I sardonically appended the word “yeah”.

Clearly, that sentence (with the “yeah”) does not generate any pixie dust. Nor does it inspire any confidence in the reader: “Who cares?” While the sentence is not rude, it isn’t respectful, either: I’m wasting the reader’s time. (”I am a sponge…”?)

In an effort to appear more professional, I overly embellished the last sentence in draft #6:

I very much enjoy teaching and am eager for opportunities to not only educate patients about skills to cope with the vicissitudes of life and, if necessary, pharmacological intervention, but also to educate other health care providers to optimally treat their patients (and facilitate

and got so tired of blathering that I just stopped. I have never seen the word “vicissitudes” in any phrase other than “vicissitudes of life”. Can anything other than “life” have “vicissitudes”? And I don’t know what exactly I wanted to “facilitate”, though the end of the effort came easily enough.

Draft #7, in retrospect, became the foundation for my personal statement. I deleted the bulleted list, wrote complete sentences, and tried to add structure to the recounting of facts. Here is the last sentence in draft #7:

Because I am awesome, enthusiastic, skilled both in problem solving and psychotherapeutic modalites, you should take me as a fellow. You’d sorely lose out if you didn’t.

I wanted the sentence to be cheeky: This is close to the sentiment I want to communicate to the reader. However, it is too casual, comes across as patently impertinent (”wow—that’s arrogant and smug”), and has that “neener neener” quality to it. My understanding is that people higher up on the food chain don’t appreciate this type of taunting.

I didn’t attend to the last sentence again until draft #18. Paragraphs #4 and #5 were giving me a lot of problems—I wanted to provide concrete examples, as specifics are generally more fascinating than broad generalities—and only when I felt satisfied with them did I move on. Here is the metamorphosis of the last sentence:

My skills in psychopharmacology and various psychotherapies, specific interest in the interface between mental and physical health, and enthusiasm for teaching are valuable assets that shall benefit medical students, residents, staff, and most importantly, patients. I intend to fruitfully utilize these talents in my future in consult-liaison psychiatry.

One sentence became two. I debated throwing in the “and most importantly” part; though true, it sounds hammy. The last sentence also comes across as lofty—my intention was to communicate my confidence that my future is in consult-liaison psychiatry and, dang it, I’m awesome.

The last sentence in draft #19:

My proficiency in psychopharmacology and various psychotherapies, specific interest in the interface between mental and physical health, and enthusiasm for teaching are valuable assets that shall benefit medical students, residents, staff, and most importantly, patients.

I took out the loftiness. One of the best lessons I ever learned in writing was to just “take it away”. If it just doesn’t seem right, just delete it. I already knew, however, that I would eventually add another sentence—that sentence alone doesn’t have that “oomph”, that satisfying closure, that puff of pixie dust. It’s kinda dangling there.

I stopped futzing with the last sentence on draft #20. (I sent out draft #23 to proofreaders; there are only so many times I can read a document—silently, out loud, in pig Latin—before the whole thing sounds like contrived crap.) I’m still not happy with the very last sentence:

My proficiency in psychopharmacology and various psychotherapies, specific interest in the interface between mental and physical health, and enthusiasm for teaching are valuable assets that shall benefit medical students, residents, staff, and most importantly, patients. I am confident that these characteristics shall enrich the service I shall provide as a consult-liaison psychiatrist.

I’m not entirely sure what I am trying to communicate with that last sentence; I want to highlight my dedication to “service” (patient care, teaching, etc.), express confidence in my future, and remind the reader that I’m awesome. (If I keep thinking that, everyone—including myself—will believe it, right?) I want something pithy and the pithiness ain’t coming.

As much as I love writing, it drives me crazy sometimes.

(Part of the ongoing Relationship Series.)