很多有音乐特色的学生在提交自己的文书的时候，很高的背景资历，但是因为关注点不准确，描述就会产生偏差，使得招生官一头雾水，这个时候如何抓住自己艺术发展上的心路历程，将自己的思想和艺术修为更好的呈现给招生官就显得尤为关键。

学生提供的原始素材：
      幼儿园的琴房在一座独立的楼里，有各种各样的琴房：扬琴、古筝、钢琴、手风琴……第一次进入这个地方是老师带着我去“玩”这些乐器。五六岁时那一刻的记忆到现在仍旧清晰，那么多“奇形怪状”可以发出好听声音的东西一下子展现在我面前，我的视线瞬时被这些东西牢牢抓住了。我瞬间感觉非常之兴奋，迫不及待上前去拨弄每一个乐器。在老师的指点下，我“吹拉弹唱”：敲过扬琴，拉过二胡，“搬”过手风琴，弹过钢琴。后来，经过一个一个的接触，我选择了极具民族特色以及挑战性的一个乐器——古筝。从那以后，我每天的午睡时间就被牺牲掉了一半去琴房练琴。在那里，我受益匪浅。五六岁的孩子最坐不住，但在琴房里摄于老师的坐镇，我很好地锻炼了我的“定力”，可以长时间坐在位子上练习。同时，看谱记谱极大地锻炼了我的记忆力与双手协调能力开发大脑，以至于后来到小学时可以“过目不忘”。在那个安静的琴房里，我度过了我童年里最孤单最艰苦却也是让我收获最大的一段时光。那个琴房直到现在还时不时闪烁在我的脑海里，可见它对我的影响之大。
      我从五岁开始学古筝。五岁的年纪什么都不懂，只会在老师的指导下一遍又一遍练习最简单的指法。在苦练基本功的同时，对老师的话“唯命是从”，毕竟在那个年纪对音乐没有什么理解，艰苦的练习也让我无暇顾及自己弹的到底是什么。后来渐渐长大，级数一点点增加上去，所要求的表现力与爆发力也大大加强。老师总是告诉我应该怀着怎样的感情去谈，哪里应该轻、哪里应该重、哪里应该快、哪里应该慢。于是，我总是照着老师的标记去弹，音乐成了“机械化”的动作，一遍又一遍，听不出一点差别，而我自己更是可以在弹琴是神游天边。但是，随着岁数的增长，阅历的增加以及对音乐的感觉发生变化，我发现这种方法是不对的：它不仅组织了我自身对音乐理解的过程而且还使音乐这种感性的东西变得机械化。比如在《孟姜女》（描述的秦朝时期一名妇女在建长城的丈夫身亡后的哀怨）一曲中，我在后部分感受到了壮美，而老师却只是让我悲伤、悲伤。我渐渐认识到，音乐是无形的，每个人都可以有他自己的见解。于是我勇敢地向老师提了出来，老师反而很欣慰，建议我以后可以试着自己去慢慢感受到更多地东西。如果换做现在，我想我还是会这么做的。
      高二上半学期，学校在年级学农时举行“班班有舞蹈”的比赛。为了这个比赛，每个班级都需要提前两个月的时间进行排练准备：这是一项完全由学生自己组织的活动，老师不参与任何部分的谋划与管理。当时，我是我班这项活动的负责人之一，从一开始接到比赛的消息之后便忙开了。
     第一件事是进行舞蹈风格种类与整体布局的选择。我们采用的方式为民主投票：将已经进行筛选过的舞蹈视频依次排序在全班面前播放，然后进行投票。在票选结果出来后，在组织人员们在浏览过大量的视频以及天马行空的想象的基础上，经过激烈辩驳，我们最终决定采用“四合一”即四种风格混为一体的方式展现本班的多样性。
     第二件事情是去寻找舞蹈老师为我们这些甚至没有舞蹈基础的孩子编舞、排练。为了寻找老师，我们兵分几路，从舞蹈教室找到学长学姐，打了无数通电话商议价格、协调时间、安排同学们分批去学舞。）
     第三件事便是最令人头疼的事情：在沉重的课业负担之下，要集合起全班的同学花大量的时间练舞。无疑，只有课余时间才能让三十多个同学集中到一起来。为此，放学之后、双休日、活动课等都被“征用”来练习舞蹈，如此“大剂量”的排练让班级里的很多同学直呼“受不了”。在一次放学后的舞蹈教室里，部分同学看着窗外渐渐变黑的天色开始无精打采、自由散漫，大大拉低了效率。我和其他的组织人员试图活跃气氛，可收效甚微。当被有的同学质问“如此大强度的排练有何意义”时，我非常生气，一时控制不住自己向他大喊大叫。
     那一刻，我觉得自己很委屈很懊恼，一种挫败感席卷而来。当时我的脑子里想的就是自己付出了那么多努力却不被认可，被一句“有何意义”否定了全部的尝试。回家后，我静下心来思考这其间到底存在什么问题。是组织者们太急功近利？还是同学们的团体意识不够强烈？抑或两边的沟通不好？最后得出的结论是：这三者兼备。想问题要从不同立场去想，从自己的角度，更要从他人的角度。于是，第二天在同学们每个人都发表意见的讨论之后，我制定出了一份更完善的“排练计划”:一周三天放学留下练习，每次一个小时绝不拖延。但是每个同学必须保证完全投入、认真练习，把效率发挥大最大。后来，每个一个人都很配合地进行排练，并且最终获得了校第一名的成绩。从这件事之后，我在处理关系或问题上更加注重沟通与理解，无论是在与自己父母的相处抑或是同学关系、工作上。

文书梳理、修改成文：

Describe a place or environment where you are perfectly content. What do you do or experience there, and why is it meaningful to you?
Every young girl has her private wonderland, a source of joy, courage and refuge. For someone, it is grandfather’s vegetable garden or mother’s wardrobe. For me, that happy place was the music school, both the physical place and the things which it has represented throughout my life.
I remember walking into the school that first day, and the sheer awe I felt upon seeing and hearing so many different kinds of musical instruments. I was immediately thrilled by the way the notes jumped out when horns blew, strings plucked and keys clicked. As the tranquil conservatory awoke, in many ways so did I. Fascinated by the many mysterious sounds, I chose one of the more traditional, the Guzheng, a large zither-like instrument.
“Do things with passion!” was the first lesson I learnt in the music school. At first, I just practiced the Guzheng endlessly, practicing the same pieces the same way, wanting so badly to “get it right.” My diligence seemingly worked, as within a month I could play several melodies completely. One day, though, while I was lost in my own “fluency,” my teacher interrupted me to say, “Your music is dead. I can hear your skill, but nothing from your heart.” I was shocked at first, but after thinking about it, I had to admit she was right. For such a long time, I had just been mechanically repeating each new piece of music, trying merely to be correct in my imitation and reduce my mistakes. From then on, though, I tried to fill my music with more emotion.
Some time later, I chose a piece called Lady Meng Jiang. The story is set during the Qin Dynasty, and involves the separation of Lady Meng Jiang from her husband, who is sent by imperial officials as Corvee labor to build the Great Wall. Lady Meng Jiang's grief at her husband’s subsequent death supposedly causes a section of the wall to collapse. The difficulty of the piece is in trying to express this legendary grief sincerely. But in the piece I discovered emotions that transcended grief. I felt the character’s implacable will, perseverance and resentment of authority, and with my teacher’s encouragement, I strove to express this complexity when I played. For the first time, music became a medium for the true expression of my feelings.
The conservatory also taught me about cooperation. In my junior year, I was appointed to lead a ten-person team to perform at our school’s annual dance contest. Initially, I served as the performance’s choreographer, director, costume designer and faculty-student liaison. Despite my diligent efforts, though, we met with a number of difficulties. My team complained about conflicts between practice and their regular coursework and about the dance and costume design. Their negative attitude enraged and disappointed me.
At one point, quite despondent, I went to my music school and played a passionate melody on the guzheng. Feeling better, I suddenly noticed the calluses on each of my fingers, earned by years of practicing my instrument. I thought about the impossibility of playing any beautiful or passionate melody with only one finger, and how much of the conflict I was dealing with stemmed from my trying to control so much of the process. The next day, I discussed this revelation with my team and began delegating most of tasks I had previously taken upon myself. Fortunately, the team was quite receptive and energetic about increasing their participation. Two months later, we earned first prize in the contest and embraced each other warmly.
My music conservatory is my secret garden, for it has witnessed my happiness and sorrows. While I am no longer the naïve little girl who first stepped inside, the music school will always inspire me to try to be a little better every day.