In Chapter 3 of Should I Stay or Should I Go?, Efraín Ochoa tackles the challenge of MBA essays with creativity and strategy, blending humor and personal insight. From unique prompts to crafting authentic narratives, this chapter offers key lessons for navigating the application process—all with rich storytelling and GRE-worthy vocabulary.

Disclaimer

• All characters and events in this chapter —even those based on real people—are entirely fictional.
• The following chapters contain coarse language and situations and due to its content it should not be read by anyone.

Chapter 3 “Writing Essays”

After my trip, I faced the daunting task of crafting my MBA essays. The weight of condensing my life’s journey into a few succinct pages loomed over me. Each keystroke felt like an exercise in futility, as though no narrative could fully encapsulate the essence of who I was. But I pressed on, driven by the urgency of knowing this was my moment to leave a mark. I knew this would be as important as my 720 as that year was harder than ever to enter a top school. We just had a huge global financial crisis and the GMAT average jumped 50 points for all the schools. The previous year a 720 could get you in seconds to any school with almost a full scholarship guaranteed, that year who knows?

I rummaged through the attic of my memories, searching for threads that could weave together a compelling story. The task was formidable, yet exhilarating—a mental excavation kindled by hope and ambition.

As I wrote, I walked a tightrope between confidence and humility, carefully balancing self-promotion with candid reflection. Every word demanded precision, every anecdote a careful dance of authenticity and intrigue.

Bit by bit, the essays took shape. I poured my passions, motivations, and aspirations into each line, crafting a narrative that felt not only truthful but resonant.

But this was merely the beginning.

Each school had its own labyrinth of essay questions, their queries echoing across applications like timeless riddles. “Why an MBA?” “Why now?” “How will you contribute to the class?” And the dreaded wildcard—“Is there anything we should know about you that hasn’t been covered elsewhere?”

For most, this last question felt like an abyss. But NYU, ever the nonconformist, posed something entirely different:

“Do whatever you want.”

It was an invitation to defy convention—a blank canvas awaiting inspiration.

I seized the opportunity with enthusiasm, crafting a cutout paper doll of myself. The doll became a vehicle for self-expression, adorned in outfits representing different facets of my identity. One day it wore an NYU jersey, hinting at a latent desire to join the basketball team. Another day, it donned meditation robes, embodying my quieter, reflective side.

Risky? Absolutely. But I clung to the hope that the admissions committee would appreciate my unconventional approach.

As I sculpted the remainder of the essays, I let my love for music bleed and permeate onto the pages. I chronicled the hours spent writing for a local rock magazine, scribbling feverishly to capture the raw energy of live performances. I painted vivid pictures of concerts I had organized in Mexico, recounting the relentless pursuit of convincing American bands to venture south of the border.

When I wasn’t writing reviews, I was standing in line for hours—sometimes overnight—to secure front-row seats at shows.

It was a labor of love/fervor/, driven by the pulse of amplifiers and the collective heartbeat of the crowd. I hoped that somewhere in my essays, the admissions committees would see the unfiltered version of me—the concert-obsessed, rock-and-roll evangelist willing to chase passion to the ends of the earth.

But essays alone wouldn’t be enough.

I became a strategist, carefully tailoring each answer to reflect the unique allure of each school. London demanded odes to its frenetic energy and endless possibilities. UCLA invited tributes to sunlit campuses and creative industries.

NYU? I kept silent on my aversion to snow, choosing instead to highlight academic excellence and networking potential.

As my drafts neared completion, I sought Steve’s counsel. I dropped by his house, essays in hand, and we lingered in his kitchen over coffee and casual conversation.

“Give me a couple of days,” he said, flashing a reassuring grin.

True to his word, I returned to find meticulous edits—marks that suggested cuts, tweaks, and refined punctuation. His feedback was germane: precise yet encouraging.

“Good ideas,” he mused. “You’re heading in the right direction.”

With his seal of approval, the essays felt ready.