I can say now that I have been admitted into law school! While I was crazily busy during the past few months applying to law schools, now I can look back on my journey and make comments as to what I could have done better and what I am proud of. Hopefully this will help make others who are viewing this blog, and make their application process go smoothly and perhaps even pain free! The first step, even before cementing the law schools you want to apply to, is to take the LSAT (Law School Admissions Test). I suggest taking this the summer before the fall you want to enter law school, or the December during your application process. For example, if you want to enter law school in the fall of 2009, you should have completed your LSAT by December of 08. Keep in mind though, the earlier you take the LSAT the better, because it becomes difficult to study for your LSAT and work on your applications all at once. It is better to get the LSAT out of the way early so you can focus all your attention on your applications.
While some find it helpful to take a course for the LSAT, I didn't find it very helpful. I bought into the course which cost me a little over 2G's, and didn't add much to my study process. The key to your process is discipline. If you are disciplined enough to study on your own, a little every day, then you most likely don't need a course. But, if you think you need a little more structure and guidance an LSAT course is probably the way to go for you. The most important thing is to take practice tests, at least one every week, and work on your problem areas. Don't underestimate the power of a high LSAT score. I learned during applying and by talking to others who have already been through the process that a high LSAT score can overshadow even a mediocre GPA. However, a high GPA does not always have the same effect with a low LSAT score.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Sunday, November 2, 2008
Short Story Part 2
For weeks following their first meeting the two were inseparable. Exactly five months after that afternoon at the café Lawrence declared his love for Amiah and she replied with her love for him. His lips stretched into one of his rare smiles and he lifted his hand to her cheek.
“Mio dolce amor, a thousand kisses;” he whispered. “But give me none in return, for they set my blood on fire.”
“Bonoparte,” she smiled back at him. “You can’t borrow from great lovers of the past forever, sweet Lawrence. You’re a great lover yourself, I’m sure you have something new and insightful to say.” He studied her face intently as his hand moved from her cheek through her hair. He gazed into her eyes as if within them was a work of art, the meaning of which he was trying to decipher.
“The strongest emotion is love. All the authors and the poets of the past, present and future all base their words around love; they base it around gaining love, losing love…dying for love. There is nothing I can say that will ever be purer than I love you. My love for you is driven by all my emotions, and everything I feel about anything is what I feel for you.”
“What do you want me to do Amiah? They don’t want me to come home, I can’t force myself upon them.”
“Lawrence, they’re your parents, please, you must be able to convince them to see me. I don’t understand what it is about me that they dislike so much, you can’t even ask them what it is?” Amiah stood a few feet behind him in her studio apartment. He stood with his back to her, his head leaning against the apartment door and his fingers pressed to his temples.
“I’ll convince them. I just can’t do it face to face, I need time. It has to be over the phone, if it’s in person they’ll just walk away.”
“If it’s on the phone they’ll just hang up!” Amiah snapped at him. He whipped his head around and pointed a finger at her mouth.
“Don’t yell at me, Amiah. Do you have any idea how fucking disrespectful you are towards me?” He dropped his hand into his hands. “You can’t keep bringing this problem up, again and again. It’s all you ever talk about, you act like I don’t do shit for this relationship.” Amiah crossed her arms and gave him a suggestive glare. “Oh, yeah, it’s ALL my fault! Take responsibility for your own fucking faults if you want me to take responsibility for mine!” He strode out of the apartment and slammed the door. Amiah slid down the wall onto the floor and curled up into a ball, rocking back and forth.
“Mio dolce amor, a thousand kisses;” he whispered. “But give me none in return, for they set my blood on fire.”
“Bonoparte,” she smiled back at him. “You can’t borrow from great lovers of the past forever, sweet Lawrence. You’re a great lover yourself, I’m sure you have something new and insightful to say.” He studied her face intently as his hand moved from her cheek through her hair. He gazed into her eyes as if within them was a work of art, the meaning of which he was trying to decipher.
“The strongest emotion is love. All the authors and the poets of the past, present and future all base their words around love; they base it around gaining love, losing love…dying for love. There is nothing I can say that will ever be purer than I love you. My love for you is driven by all my emotions, and everything I feel about anything is what I feel for you.”
“What do you want me to do Amiah? They don’t want me to come home, I can’t force myself upon them.”
“Lawrence, they’re your parents, please, you must be able to convince them to see me. I don’t understand what it is about me that they dislike so much, you can’t even ask them what it is?” Amiah stood a few feet behind him in her studio apartment. He stood with his back to her, his head leaning against the apartment door and his fingers pressed to his temples.
“I’ll convince them. I just can’t do it face to face, I need time. It has to be over the phone, if it’s in person they’ll just walk away.”
“If it’s on the phone they’ll just hang up!” Amiah snapped at him. He whipped his head around and pointed a finger at her mouth.
“Don’t yell at me, Amiah. Do you have any idea how fucking disrespectful you are towards me?” He dropped his hand into his hands. “You can’t keep bringing this problem up, again and again. It’s all you ever talk about, you act like I don’t do shit for this relationship.” Amiah crossed her arms and gave him a suggestive glare. “Oh, yeah, it’s ALL my fault! Take responsibility for your own fucking faults if you want me to take responsibility for mine!” He strode out of the apartment and slammed the door. Amiah slid down the wall onto the floor and curled up into a ball, rocking back and forth.
Short Story Part 1
It was a day filled with strange and unsettling gloom. The gloom dropped to the bottom of stomachs of even the most cheerful people and consumed them from within. The dampness settled on top of their heads and clung onto their hair. For some it even seeped into their minds. It was not a day for love, and certainly not a day for meeting soul mates. It was a day when rain was associated with tears and darkness was associated with death.
Amiah could have been standing in the rain for much longer than she stood and not have been surprised. She could have let her black leather valise, dripping with rain and ruined, sit on the cold pavement for hours and accepted that she was not meant to be happy. Her graceful arm protruded into the sky, rain drops slid down her long pale hand, and she could have waited as a million more cabs passed her by. That is why when one of the shining yellow blurs slowed enough for her to glimpse the tired Indian face behind the wheel she was relieved that she would not be standing there all night. She was nothing but relieved. Amiah picked her valise up and hoisted it into the back seat next to her. She directed the cab driver and sat straight in her seat and stared straight ahead. The cab driver glanced at her in the mirror once, and then again. She was extraordinary; her nose fell carefully between her flushed cheeks and her wordless lips were soft and sweet in appearance but bore a purposely severe expression. The driver tried to catch her glance, but the hazel eyes revealed little more than pools of molten copper might have. The reflection in her gaze caused him to uncomfortably shift his own eyes towards the road.
Red brake lights streamed through a dense evening fog as the cab came to a slow halt outside of a neat city brownstone. Amiah stepped out and lifted her head towards the top of the building; there was a man standing at the highest window, smoking a cigarette and looking down at the street with quiet anticipation. The room was dark behind him and his face was silhouetted with what she knew to be light from the hallway. She lifted a hand in a weak salute and he left the window without returning the gesture. The curtains collapsed together upon his departure. Amiah clutched her valise tighter to stop her fingers from trembling, drew in a cold breath and started up the stairs. Then she stopped, the cab pulled away and slowly she descended again.
“Excuse me,” the man at the next table said. He was leaning towards her, and his face was etched with an expression of discomfort and uncertainty. She guessed he didn’t initiate much casual coffee house flirtation. She took this as a good sign and played along. She noticed a stack of books sitting unopened in front of him; it mostly consisted of new mathematics and computer text books. But beneath the pile she caught sight of an old and creased copy of Robinson Crusoe and beneath that a slightly newer copy of Typee. He was carefully dressed, she noticed, with his shirt tucked into his pants and his pants lined with precise creases. He was embraced by cologne, but so faintly that she could only smell it when she leaned in to hear him over the whirling espresso machines. By the end of the afternoon they had exchanged telephone numbers and made plans to meet for dinner the following night. She left the café with the smell of coffee beans clinging to her clothes and optimism swinging from her heart. His name was Lawrence and hers was Amiah.
Amiah could have been standing in the rain for much longer than she stood and not have been surprised. She could have let her black leather valise, dripping with rain and ruined, sit on the cold pavement for hours and accepted that she was not meant to be happy. Her graceful arm protruded into the sky, rain drops slid down her long pale hand, and she could have waited as a million more cabs passed her by. That is why when one of the shining yellow blurs slowed enough for her to glimpse the tired Indian face behind the wheel she was relieved that she would not be standing there all night. She was nothing but relieved. Amiah picked her valise up and hoisted it into the back seat next to her. She directed the cab driver and sat straight in her seat and stared straight ahead. The cab driver glanced at her in the mirror once, and then again. She was extraordinary; her nose fell carefully between her flushed cheeks and her wordless lips were soft and sweet in appearance but bore a purposely severe expression. The driver tried to catch her glance, but the hazel eyes revealed little more than pools of molten copper might have. The reflection in her gaze caused him to uncomfortably shift his own eyes towards the road.
Red brake lights streamed through a dense evening fog as the cab came to a slow halt outside of a neat city brownstone. Amiah stepped out and lifted her head towards the top of the building; there was a man standing at the highest window, smoking a cigarette and looking down at the street with quiet anticipation. The room was dark behind him and his face was silhouetted with what she knew to be light from the hallway. She lifted a hand in a weak salute and he left the window without returning the gesture. The curtains collapsed together upon his departure. Amiah clutched her valise tighter to stop her fingers from trembling, drew in a cold breath and started up the stairs. Then she stopped, the cab pulled away and slowly she descended again.
“Excuse me,” the man at the next table said. He was leaning towards her, and his face was etched with an expression of discomfort and uncertainty. She guessed he didn’t initiate much casual coffee house flirtation. She took this as a good sign and played along. She noticed a stack of books sitting unopened in front of him; it mostly consisted of new mathematics and computer text books. But beneath the pile she caught sight of an old and creased copy of Robinson Crusoe and beneath that a slightly newer copy of Typee. He was carefully dressed, she noticed, with his shirt tucked into his pants and his pants lined with precise creases. He was embraced by cologne, but so faintly that she could only smell it when she leaned in to hear him over the whirling espresso machines. By the end of the afternoon they had exchanged telephone numbers and made plans to meet for dinner the following night. She left the café with the smell of coffee beans clinging to her clothes and optimism swinging from her heart. His name was Lawrence and hers was Amiah.
Monday, October 27, 2008
Difference Between Woolf and Joyce
It is probably first important for you to know that I'm an English Literature major, and am going through my very last semester. I'm taking a Senior Seminar in Virginia Woolf, and am currently preparing/brainstorming for my final paper. Right now I'm comparing Woolf's "Jacob's Room" and Joyce's "Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man". This is all just my opinion, and my attempt to navigate my way through complex and often convoluted modernist text.
Although Virginia Woolf and James Joyce share the medium of modernist text, their stylistic strategies differ. While Woolf employs methods such as exposing the sub-conscious thoughts of her characters, and breaking gender barriers, Joyce brings his characters out with heavy symbolism and poetic verse among his prose. "Jacob's Room" has so many characters in it that it is almost impossible to keep track of each, as well as their relations to each other. Woolf has a habit of keeping her characters distant from the reader, but this is infuriating because even though the reader (in this case me) has access to the thoughts of the characters, I leave the novel feeling more confused than ever.
If I have access to someone's thoughts, I would assume I would know more about them. Joyce does not allow us such direct access to Dedalus's thoughts, but through his poetic way of describing his experiences I get to know him better than I do any of Woolf's characters in "Jacob's Room". We seem to be jumping the years with Jacob, while with Dedalus we have more time to digest the change that occurs as he grows into adulthood.
I definitely think that I prefer Joyce's style of writing; even though I am unsure of what the symbolic text points towards sometimes, at least there is usually a clear indication of what it is related to. With Woolf sometimes there are passages that seem to just be suspended in air by themselves, with no connection to anything else that just happened in the novel. Specifically in Jacob's room Woolf often stops to describe things going on in nature. Why is this important? How does this relate to Jacob and everyone else in his life? My frustration levels rise as I read Woolf, because I know there is so much to take in but I don't even know where to begin.
Although Virginia Woolf and James Joyce share the medium of modernist text, their stylistic strategies differ. While Woolf employs methods such as exposing the sub-conscious thoughts of her characters, and breaking gender barriers, Joyce brings his characters out with heavy symbolism and poetic verse among his prose. "Jacob's Room" has so many characters in it that it is almost impossible to keep track of each, as well as their relations to each other. Woolf has a habit of keeping her characters distant from the reader, but this is infuriating because even though the reader (in this case me) has access to the thoughts of the characters, I leave the novel feeling more confused than ever.
If I have access to someone's thoughts, I would assume I would know more about them. Joyce does not allow us such direct access to Dedalus's thoughts, but through his poetic way of describing his experiences I get to know him better than I do any of Woolf's characters in "Jacob's Room". We seem to be jumping the years with Jacob, while with Dedalus we have more time to digest the change that occurs as he grows into adulthood.
I definitely think that I prefer Joyce's style of writing; even though I am unsure of what the symbolic text points towards sometimes, at least there is usually a clear indication of what it is related to. With Woolf sometimes there are passages that seem to just be suspended in air by themselves, with no connection to anything else that just happened in the novel. Specifically in Jacob's room Woolf often stops to describe things going on in nature. Why is this important? How does this relate to Jacob and everyone else in his life? My frustration levels rise as I read Woolf, because I know there is so much to take in but I don't even know where to begin.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Saturday, October 25, 2008
About me: A brief insight into my passion for law
Hi! My name is Nadia and I'm about to apply to law schools. My journey to law school started about five years ago when I discovered the wonderful impact lawyers have on the world. My passion is to make a difference using law as a tool.
I'd really like to attend law school at Drexel, University of Pennsylvania, University of Pittsburgh or University of Chicago.
I'd really like to attend law school at Drexel, University of Pennsylvania, University of Pittsburgh or University of Chicago.
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