A Guide to Law School

 A Guide to Law School 

Cole F. Watson

Introductory thoughts: My cousin, James, recently graduated from University. As Benjamin Braddock will quickly attest, people’s immediate question—not words of encouragement or praise—is, “What do you plan to do next?” Sometimes these people mean well and do not deserve the criticism found herein. After all, graduating college is a huge life accomplishment; so huge, that the word “huge”—whether it’s HUGE or huge rather than “meaningful and/or significant”—starts to look more like hug-e the more it’s used to describe something as monumental as graduating from college. With that in mind, one’s graduation from college ought not be overlooked simply because other horizons exist. Horizons are no doubt “huge,” but so is the opportunity to live, exist, enjoy, hunt, fish, climb, challenge, fight, kick, punch, spit, laugh and then fart, fart and then laugh, cook, eat, and beyond all praise God for the life lived thus far. 

So James, this “guide” is not for you, but rather because of you. Whether you ultimately choose law school as your next horizon is up to you. My hope is that these words will illuminate thoughts you’ve already had and questions you wouldn’t know to ask unless you started walking down this path. In many ways, this is the guide that I wish I had after I graduated college, but it was a guide that could not—indeed, should not—exist unless I walked my own path through law school. There are an incredible number of “How to” blogs and books dealing with this subject matter, some of which may be worth the read. Which ones those might be is beyond my pay grade. Ultimately, you will walk your own path and document your own views for those that come after you. This, to me, is the beauty of growing up. 

Your father has no doubt given you great insights into the legal profession as well as his experience of law school. Since his wisdom has been compounded by many, many—many—years of practice, I hope this guide also provides more details of the minutia of law school: the day-in-day-out approach, how to takes notes and prepare for exams, why seeing “the forest for the trees” is overused and unhelpful, etc. As you’ll quickly learn in law school, “outlines” are the life vests in the boat: the won’t necessarily save your life, but it sure makes floating a lot easier. Thus, in true law school form, the following outline is the rough path through these next few pages: 

1. Should you go to law school?

2. Okay, you’re going to law school. Now what?

3. Wow. You were accepted to several law schools. How do you decide which one is right for me?

4. You’re in law school. What do you do now?

1. Micro approach to 1L year

2. Macro approach to 1L year

5. 2L year and beyond

6. Avoiding 3L cynicism/complacency

7. Why charting a path is for free birds…and wise sailors

Take what you need and leave the rest behind. Come back as needed, but remember this is a guide: “a thing that helps someone to form an opinion or make a decision or calculation.”¹

1. Should you go to law school?

As with most questions of “should” as a determination of action, this is best answered after a deep analysis of your life thus far: 

• What have you done that makes you think law school is the next step? 

• Have you talked to people who have attended law school? Is there a good sample size (e.g., practicing attorneys, current students, people you respect, people you admire, drop-outs, jaded attorneys, etc.)? 

• How do your likes and dislikes comply with your notions about law school and practicing law (e.g., “I love reading and writing. There’s lots of reading and writing in law school. Therefore, I would love law school.”)?

For me, this process started somewhere in high school and continued throughout college and especially during my last semester as a result of self-induced existential crises (thank you, Kierkegaard). In many ways, my desire to attend law school was like my desire to date an ex-girlfriend: the good memories of our relationship would get in the way of the better reasons why we broke up. 

In high school, I was a great—some may even say a master—debater and extemporaneous speaker. I won dozens of medals including at state tournaments. The high of intellectual satisfaction was unrivaled. It was sometime during my junior or senior year when I turned to my debate coach and said, “Hey, I think I’d make a great attorney.” She replied with something like, “Well, duh,” or “I’ve been telling you that for years,” or “Shut up, Cole, I’m trying to teach class.” From there, I kept competing at a high level and wanted to know more about philosophical critiques and so-called “meta-arguments.” Not knowing about these rare styles of argumentation drove my ambition. I refused to lose because the other team knew more than me. I could argue all day, but to be ignorant was unacceptable and further fueled me. 

At one debate tournament, probably during my freshman year, a judge called me “folksy” for wearing boots and talking with an accent. I about lost my mind. Here I was, trying to compete in an intellectual event, and the judge, a college student from Dallas most likely, called me folksy—after having done my best to assimilate to the Iowa-Parkian culture, mind you. I equated “folksy” with “dumb,” and I did not want to be dumb. I quickly rejected Iowa-Parkian culture in favor of a more sophisticated take on being a top contender. The irony, of course, being 10-15 years removed from that situation, is that I love wearing my boots to law school (and now court), slipping into my accent any chance I get, and generally appearing folksy around my classmates (and clients) who may quick to write me off as another ignorant, white man (or possibly the guy who always wears a suit). Perspective is everything. What we do or have done in life channels our decisions. Those decisions become our actions and our actions shape our identity. Who we are is more akin to what we have done than what we think, dream, or believe. 

I tell you this to set the stage for 18-year-old Cole fleeing Iowa Park to attend the University of Texas so I could escape the simplicity of Small Town, Texas in favor of the prestige of studying philosophy (ha!) at a world-renowned institution. My dream was to study philosophy, not only to feel less dumb (not necessarily smarter), and then attend Harvard Law School—because then, and only then, would I be able to show how I “made it” and “overcame” my rural education.² Again, perspective is everything. One of my mentors in college was an Iowa Park and UT graduate who graduated at the top of his class from HLS. He epitomized my dream (and probably should have been my warning to get a new dream). 

Ultimately, my grades (i.e., my actions) did not reflect my desire to attend law school, let alone HLS. I kept telling myself a story of a future life of success and lived there rather than in my present reality. When this “future life” came crashing down after the realization that I would not make it to HLS, I reevaluated everything: law school, religion, family, geography, music, diet, friendships—everything. 

Put simply, I decided that law school was not for me, so I had to course-correct quickly in order to get a J-O-B (“just over broke”). Afterall, I had seemingly (got) wasted my first two years of college, and I had a lot of ground to make up. I started consulting high school debate programs and running debate tournaments. I joined student government and other organizations. I studied abroad in Spain and made incredible memories along the way. When I entered my last semester, my conception of where I’d be in the future eluded me. 

In the Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath, she describes a tree with several branches that begin withering away the longer she stares at them. Each branch represented a different life: a future that she could choose: explorer, mother, poet, etc. The catch was that by choosing one branch, she would forsake the others. This idea hit me hard. If I choose law school, then I’d have to give up on my dream of being a writer. If I choose to “settle down,” then my wanderlust would never be satisfied. If I choose x, I’d always regret not choosing y. People smarter than me call this “anxiety.”

So I ran away. I escaped to Seattle—with good intentions, mind you—but escaped nonetheless. I needed to get outside my bubble, to see life from a different point of view. Law school would always be there, often as a tether to reality or at least a safety net of sorts, but there, in the future, away from my present, away from my concerns—far enough away to allow me to think through my thoughts. 

The mountains welcomed me. I had found temporary refuge. And then the rain came; it didn’t stop for months. This was not a “shower” like we’re used to in Texas. This was a constant drizzle, day after day. The darkness surrounded. The cold manifested. My refuge was now a makeshift campsite as I fought to survive. I clashed with the people, the patterns, the ethos, all of it. This wasn’t home, yet I did everything I could to make it feel like home. I had to get out and get out fast. I finished my year of service and took the first flight I could back to Texas. Graduate school was waiting for me. “Finally,” I thought. “The place where I can read, write, think, dream, and process the way I need to.”

Three months later, my restlessness unyielding, I changed my mind—again. This time, I stumbled into a law office. As obvious as it seems to me now (and likely has already occurred to you), working in a law office is the best way to figure out if practicing law is a good fit. My professor in graduate school, Clay Reynolds, pulled me aside after class one day and shot me straight. He said that writing, at least at this juncture of my life, was not for me, and I should consider other options. Here I was as a wide-eye twentysomething, listening to a man I wanted to emulate—what with his book collection in the ten-thousands, dozens of published works of fiction, hundreds of published articles, and a plump professorship—telling me that if he had it to do over, he would have pursued a more lucrative path. He explained further that taken together, all the royalties he had ever received from his novels would be enough for a decent down payment on a new car. “At least with law school,” he said, “there’s money at the end of the tunnel.” 

At some point during that semester, when I was trying to get lost in the library, I stumbled across this passage from a poet I admired:

“Nevertheless, a good many years ago, when I really was a poet in the sense that I was all imagination, and so on, I deliberately gave up writing poetry because, much as I loved it, there were too many other things I wanted not to make an effort to have. But I didn’t like the idea of being bedeviled all the time about money and I didn’t for a moment like the idea of poverty, so I went to work like anybody else and kept at it for a good many years.”

Wallace Stevens to Ronald Lane Latimer

May 6, 1937 (Letters 320)

This also hit home. “Starving artist” comes to mind. But more importantly, I wanted to be the kind of man that could provide for my family. And writing clever things that went unpublished wasn’t going to cut it. Of course, now—perspective being important—guys write newsletters, LinkenIn posts, and tweet and earn a healthy living by doing so. Channeling eyeballs to your content is a great way to earn more on the Internet. But that’s a matter of sales, marketing, and consistency. More on that in the future. 

I won’t romanticize my time at the law office, Berry Applemen Lieden (BAL), but I will share the “moment” when I knew I had made the right decision not to pursue grad school further. We had a client that simply needed a letter explaining that his visa was (1) currently valid because (2) the renewal application was already filed with the United States Citizen and Immigration Services (USCIS), and (3) it had not been on file for more than six months. Easy enough. As an A+ paralegal, my managing attorney called me in and asked me to type up this letter. Though this was outside my typical day-to-day assignments, I got after it. The letter was maybe two paragraphs and printed on firm letterhead (very important). I took the draft to the attorney. He signed off, and I scanned it over to our client. Total time: 20 minutes. Total bill: $200. Yeah, I had made the right decision w/r/t my writing “talent.” 

Which brings us back to “the” question: should you go to law school? 

1. Hmm…

2. Maybe? 

3. Heck yeah! 

4. No, whatever you do, do not go. 

5. All of the above.

By no means are you in any hurry. Like I said earlier, law school will still be there. Of course, there’s the pesky issue of taking the LSAT, writing a personal statement, getting letters of recommendation, etc., which all have their own timeline, but you, as a twentysomething relishing his accomplishments and thinking of next steps, have time. My biggest piece of advice in answering this question: match what you have done to what you want to do. If those things do not align, then there’s no reason to go to law school. Likewise, if you find yourself forcing them to fit together, that’s probably of tell-tale sign of avoiding it.

My personal analysis of “the” question: I enjoy debate and argumentation. I’m much better at writing informatively than fictionally. I enjoy using my intellectual abilities and passion for learning to help me; I like knowing things that other people don’t and then using that knowledge to help and benefit, teach and coach. A JD gives me the credential I need to do just about anything whether I’m practicing law in 20 years or running for elected office or need a large paperweight out on the ranch. Seeing how arguments clash together and judicially resolving them excites me, as nerdy as that sounds. Finally, I can also say that I have been affirmed at every step of law school, through my buddies, classmates, professors, judges, and mentors. Again, perspective is everything. Writing this on the eve of my final semester of law school, I can say, without doubt or hesitation, that law school was the right path for me. This was a mountain I needed to climb before other horizons could be seen.

From my last semester of college, through the following year, my personal statement haunted my thoughts. I had no idea what to say because I wasn’t ready to write truthfully. I honestly didn’t know why I wanted to go to law or what I should say about myself. It took dozens of drafts and months of reflection before I was ready to hit submit. Here are just three variations of my personal statements. There’s a beer with your name on it if you can guess which one earned a scholarship.  

TAMU_PS 3

I grew up in Small Town, Texas: one blinking light, two gas stations, three Baptist churches, and four more cows than graduating seniors. I played under Friday night lights, earned my Eagle Scout, and graduated as my class’s tri-torian. The Terry Foundation awarded me a full-ride scholarship to attend the University of Texas at Austin because of my leadership capability, community involvement, and financial need. Because of their investment, I promised to serve other people all my life. While at UT, I started a debate-coaching business. My mission was to coach small-town kids like me into Texas’ top debaters, because I believed education was better shared than borrowed. In my final year of the business, one team finished third in the State Debate Meet just as I did four years earlier. After graduation, I took off for Seattle to pursue my passion for equitable education by serving with AmeriCorps. Needless to say, Seattle, Washington wasn’t the same as Small Town, Texas between the rain, Seahawk fans, and fresh fish. However, the boys I worked with reminded me of myself: energetic, goofy, quick to competition, and slow to get back to work after lunch. They were the reasons I returned day after day; they are the reasons I am applying today.  Two fifth-grade boys in particular, Malik and Hirsi, often come to mind. One day, when Malik turned his back, Hirsi shoved him into the castle Malik was building. Malik got up and tackled Hirsi to the ground. Both boys did the best they could to gain the upper hand before I picked Malik up by the back of his billowy, black jacket. Later that day, Hirsi came in from recess with his goldenrod jeans caked in mud after a seventh-grader shoved him during our football game. When Hirsi returned from the nurse wearing pink replacement pants, Malik made the mistake of smarting-off about Hirsi’s new appearance. Hirsi made his way towards Malik, picking up a book to throw at him as I hustled to intervene. Their antagonizing never ceased despite administrative intervention though some semblance of peace was achieved after both boys brought in the same Pokémon book towards the year’s end. Questions filled my journal: What caused Malik and Hirsi to act this way? Did something happen outside the classroom? What could I do to best support them? Though I didn’t have the same background as these boys, I felt connected to them because antagonizing, roughhousing, and lack of educational resources are not limited to “inner-city” kids. Small Town Texans need equitable education as well, yet they remain stereotyped, disrespected, and misunderstood—an injustice worth fighting against.  My calling involves making education more accessible for the rural parts of Texas. I believe the law plays a significant role in resource distribution to low-income—oftentimes rural—school districts and I aim to make the most of my time at Texas A&M University School of Law by learning how I can channel my passion for education to help students and teachers alike. Moreover, I know Texas A&M is an influential establishment that has the network and resources to influence the way Texas shapes its educational policy. For these reasons, I believe a legal education from Texas A&M is necessary for making education more equitable for Small Town Texans.

Personal Statement - rough draft 11

A new day welcomed me as I looked down the trail. The rugged terrain was familiarly unfamiliar as I determined which way to go. I could retreat to the beginning of the trail or I could move forward from here. I returned the map to my backpack and looked to where the trail bent in the undergrowth. A deep breath of excitement filled my lungs as I made my decision to go forward. Along the way, I stopped and talked to a retired couple that was heading back to the beginning of the trail. They asked me why I was spending my spring break alone in the Texas Hill Country. I told them I had a lot of major life decisions coming up that required isolated reflection. They smiled as they seemed to understand where I was coming from. I thanked them for their encouragement as I proceeded down the trail wondering of all the views they had seen in their own lifetimes. I’d seen several in mine. Some were arduously simple while others were plainly complicated. And at times, some were both. Four years ago, a simple envelope contained a plain letter from the Terry Foundation. They had chosen me as one of their own. Tears boiled in my eyes as I saw my mother see her baby boy grow up in a single moment. A panel of selected Terry Scholars interviewed potential recipients. All of these candidates were academically-gifted and community-oriented leaders in need of help from the other side; yet they saw in me what others had seen in them. Based on their recommendation, the Foundation was willing to pay for my entire education at the University of Texas, including a semester abroad, provided that I was willing to give back all along my journey. Their arduous request ignited a series of complicated questions that demanded answers. Why me? Why not someone else? What made me so special? These questions filled my journal until the answer finally showed itself: they invested in me because they simply believed in me. I promised to give to back so off I went to make good of their investment. As I came back to the trail, the sight of my reflection in a stream provided a needed laugh. With an oversized hat and an undersized backpack, I looked more like a wayward transient than a philosophic mountainman. Nevertheless, I was proud for making it this far on my journey.  In the quiet moment, I began to reflect on the events from earlier that week. I sat with the students I was consulting as we anticipated the results from their final round at the state debate meet. When the results were finally announced, my students excitedly climbed up to the top of the stage. Even though they were exhausted, their smiles told me they were proud of reaching this summit. Their medals showed they were prepared to climb the next mountain. From the back of the auditorium, my perspective was as it should be: not on the stage, not in front of the crowd, but rather in the back, smiling to myself and congratulating them for a job well done. My success came, not from the simple medals they won, but from the complicated lives they would influence including my own. They helped me shape my understanding of the value of education by its ability to be shared rather than possessed. As I pressed on, the trail took me to the edge of a cliff overlooking a vast landscape of unexplored mountains. I sat down to drink some water and a peace found me. The sound of those beckoning mountains soon faded to a whisper as I sought refuge in my own thoughts. The stillness of the Mediterranean settled in and took me back to a simple taxi ride. I didn’t want to take a taxi that night but my friends insisted. They said my homestay was too far away even though I had walked from here before. They said now was the time for safety, not stupidity. I proclaimed that now was the time for a challenge and an adventure. They rolled their eyes at me and flagged down a taxi. I told the man my address and we were off. I had only been in Barcelona for a month and my Spanish showed it. As we went through the narrow streets, I saw a picture of a little girl on his dashboard. I mustered up some valentía and asked him about the picture. He smiled at my lack of Spanish and replied that it was his daughter. I told him she was pretty and he went into an entire story about her loving to sing and dance. I didn’t understand all the Spanish he said but he used the same facial expressions my dad uses when he talks about my sister. When we arrived at my homestay, I thanked him in the simple Catalan I learned earlier that week and he told me goodnight in the Catalan he learned long ago. Unable to speak the same language allowed us to be the complicated humans that we simply are: kind, compassionate, and proud of those that we love.  The thoughts of pride brought me back as I sat there on the edge of the cliff. Pride in one’s reflection is blinding while pride in one’s journey is enlightening. As I stepped outside of my memory, I was determined to move forward. There were more unseen sights to see. With a sly smile, I threw my pack back on and continued down the trail. My steps became slower as the road became steeper. This was no ordinary trail nor was it a trail that I’ve walked before. This was a challenge. This was an adventure. This was a mountain to climb in order to get to the unexplored mountains on the other side. I looked up to see how much further I had to go and smiled at far I had already come.  Law School is not the final mountain but it is the next unexplored mountain in my journey. The arduous trail I’ve taken has led me to its base and I have no intention of simply retreating back to its beginning. Each step along the way brings with it new people with their own backgrounds and forefronts. Some walk with me while others follow me. Some stop to camp while others tell me the climb is worth the view. I know where I’m from. I know where I’m going. I know what got me here, and I know what will get me there. A boy’s backpacker mentality is one thing but a man’s pursuit of the road less traveled is another.

:)(:

The rain grazed against my City Year jacket as the red of my uniform mimicked the color of the falling leaves. As I walked to the bus stop, I was determined to make the most of my day. I hopped onto the bus and settled into the South Seattle morning. As the bus hummed down Rainier Avenue, I thought of how I managed to find myself living in the Pacific Northwest.  In the Spring of 2012, I received a letter from the Terry Foundation. They had chosen me as one of their own and awarded me a scholarship to attend the University of Texas at Austin. Tears boiled in my eyes as I saw my mother see her baby boy grow up in a single moment. A panel of formally selected Terry Scholars interviewed potential recipients. All of these candidates were academically-gifted and community-oriented leaders in need of financial help; yet they saw in me what others had seen in them: the desire to serve others. Based on their recommendation, the Foundation was willing to pay for my entire time at the University of Texas, including a semester abroad, provided that I was willing to give back all along my journey. Throughout college, I discovered different ways to give back by serving those around me. When I graduated, I was ready to move to Seattle and learn how to give back to a community that did not call me their own. When the bus slowed to a stop, I stepped out into the crisp morning air. Fall was finally showing its favor with the festive colors of burnt orange and maroon that sooner be here than stationed back at college. During our social studies time, J-Crew burped the Pledge of Allegiance while A.T.M. showed me another one of his goofy magic tricks. I held back my laughter as long as I could until we got back on track to learn more about the social influences that shape our education. My philosophy of education is rooted in my journey through the rural school system of North Texas and branches through the development of my high school speech and debate consulting business, WE Coaching. In the Spring of 2016, I sat with the students I was consulting as we anticipated the results from their final round at the state debate meet. When the results were finally announced, they hurried to the top of the stage to receive their medals. From the back of the auditorium, my perspective was as it should be; not on the stage, not in front of the crowd, but rather in the back, smiling to myself and congratulating them for a job well done. Their success helped shape my understanding of the value of education as a resource to be shared within a community rather than a commodity possessed by a business.  Though I love serving in this South Seattle community, I know I’m ready to return home to the communities that call me their own in Texas. I represent good ‘ol country boys from the Panhandle Plains as much as I represent those that don’t have the privilege I do as a college-educated man. My understanding of education is being developed by my time here, and I believe learning the law will  continue to shape my understanding of the intersections between justice and education. I see the University of Texas School of Law as a place where I can develop more meaningful connections in the fight for equitable education and develop my understanding of how the law can help rural kids like me make the most of their time through our school system. For now, I will continue to serve the students of this South Seattle community the best way I know how and learn everything I can to bring back with me in order to continue fighting for equitable access to education.

It took a lot of work—living the life in front of me and reflecting on the life behind me—to get to a final product. Here’s just a snapshot of what that looked like in practice:

Hopefully it goes without saying that this approach is not required. All this writing gave me the opportunity to approach the same issue—Why do I want to go to law school?—from as many perspectives as I could think of. You may hammer yours out in an afternoon, edit it for awhile the next morning, and send it off to the admission committee, bringing them to tears and laughter, ultimately transcending the genre of personal statements all together. That’s certainly what I wanted to do at first, but I settled for writing honestly instead. 

2. Okay, you’re going to law school. Now what?

Awesome, congratulations! Are you sure though? Have you taken the LSAT yet? If not, you need to do that ASAP. Didn’t like taking the LSAT? Me either. Only 0.001% of LSAT-takers enjoy it. In fact, they enjoy it so much that they drop out of law school and begin teach the test. 7-Sage. Kaplan. Mike Kim. All those guys eventually gave up the idea of practicing the law so they could practice the LSAT more. Good for them, but hot damn does misery loves company. 

My biggest piece of advice on this front: unless you’re going to a top-15 law school, your decision on which schools to apply to should come down to three things: (1) location, (2) bar-passage rates, and (3) scholarship. All other factors are meretricious toys: fun to have, useless to own. With that in mind, if you score a 170+ (on a scale from 120-180), you can just about walk into any law school in the country—including HLS. To give you an idea of what that translates to, a 170 score puts you in the 97th percentile for all testers, but (shockingly) in the 25th percentile at HLS. For UTexas Law: 168 is the median LSAT score. TAMU: 160 is the median, which coincidentally is what I scored—roughly in the 80th percentile for all test-takers.

Now here’s where the correlation between a student’s LSAT score and (1) his performance in school, (2) his ability as an attorney, and (3) the school’s ranking get discombobulated. 

• A student’s LSAT score is SOMEWHAT indicative of his future GPA. It’s the student’s ability to prepare for the exam (i.e., practice test after practice test after practice test) and the student’s ability to “sift the wheat from chaff” that matter. 

• A student’s LSAT score is NOT indicative of his ability to practice law. There are just too many attorneys and exceptions to the exception and sidewinding stories of struggle that give any indication of a “successful” attorney. This is all in my humble opinion, of course.

• A student’s LSAT score is DEFINITELY correlated with a school’s ranking. Why? For the same reason that a guy who power snatches 180lbs is stronger than the guy who power snatches 170lbs. Both are strong, but one is clearly “stronger.” So if these guys both go to a weightlifting competition, the first guy will “beat” the second guy, even though we could reasonably conclude both of these men are “strong.” Moreover, there’s a decent amount of studies that show a student’s LSAT score is directly correlated with passing the bar. This also directly affects a school’s ranking. To continue with the analogy, if all that is needed at this weightlifting competition is for each person to power snatch 140lbs, then it’s in the team’s best interest to still bring the strongest guys to ensure the team’s success. In other words, the guys who can power snatch 160+lbs will have an easier time power snatching 140lbs then the guys who are struggling with 120-140lbs. At this point, the analogy breaks down: why not just have a pass/fail LSAT? Either you’re “ready” for law school (i.e., can power snatch 140lbs) or you’re not. There’s really no need to see what each person can max out on. True, all true. But that discussion is probably left for another time. For now, law schools want students scoring in the top percentiles for the same reason Blue Blood football programs want the biggest, fastest, and strongest: higher likelihood of success come game day. 

So how do you get the score you want? 

Practice, practice, practice, practice, practice, practice, practice, practice, practice, practice, practice, practice, practice, practice, practice, practice, practice, practice, practice, practice, practice, practice, practice, practice, practice, practice, practice, practice, practice, practice, practice, practice, practice, practice, practice, practice, practice, practice, practice, practice, practice, practice, practice, practice, practice, practice, practice, practice, practice, practice, practice, practice, practice, practice, practice, practice, practice, practice, practice, practice, practice, practice, practice, practice, practice, practice, practice, practice, practice, practice, practice, practice, practice, practice, practice, practice, practice, practice, practice, practice, practice, practice, practice, practice, practice, practice, practice. 

It sounds so simple, but most advice is. Take as many practice tests as you can (whether you buy the Law School Admission Counsels books or print pirated versions) under timed restrictions with similar test-day conditions (no phone, limited breaks, etc.). However, for your first 3-5 tests, take it nice and slow. Read and unpack each question to get familiar with its content. Free resources abound for logic game puzzles.³ Get to know the material first-hand, under your own direction and understanding. As revered coach Vince Lombardi once said, “Gentlemen, this is an LSAT question.”⁴ Teach yourself about the test first and foremost. 

3. Wow. You were accepted to several law schools. How do you decide which is the right one?

I’ll make this easy: I chose Texas A&M because (1) it was in Ft. Worth, (2) it’s up-and-coming, eager to improve in all areas, and (3) they offered me a full-ride scholarship. As previously stated, I thought “law school” meant HLS or bust. As I snapped back to reality, the gravity of my LSAT/GPA weighed down my realistic options to “Tier 2”⁵ schools. “Realistic,” not to be down on Debbie, but because that’s the tried-and-true way of throwing out applications from the get-go. I denied this Realism for a long time. I still believed my application was special despite throwing it in the midst of some of the highest performing college graduates (i.e., those wanting to attend more school). I might as well have thrown a steak in the middle of a meat market and called it beef. Sure, I had excelled in high school in many areas and that eventually landed me a full-ride to UT. But what had I done at UT? Average student (3.4 GPA, 3.8 major GPA). Student government. Started company. Volunteered. Organizational involvement. As it turns out, that is the prototypical application: taken in the aggregate the law school selection committee needs a way to remove undeserving applications quickly and effectively. Enter LSAT/GPA, stage left. 

Once the real contenders are left (that is the “strongest” guys and gals at the metaphorical weightlifting competition), then it’s a matter of creating a diversified class, whatever that means these days. Based on interacting with ~85% of my class, diversity means undergrad colleges (bulk still come from TAMU, UT, Tech, but numbers-wise, this still makes sense), major, home state, purpose for attending law school, and protected classes such as race and gender. Knowing this, I pitched myself to the committee as a good ‘ol boy from Small Town, Texas that wanted to give back to my community. I connected my desire with TAMU’s mission, and, apparently, that worked. However, it did not work at UT, Colorado, or Denver. OU nibbled, but I couldn’t reel her in—though, in hindsight, I’m very I didn’t. 

What was the question? Oh yeah, how should you decide which law school to choose? Like I said earlier, location, bar-passage rates, and scholarship are the most important factors. If you want to practice in Texas, it makes a great deal of sense to attend law school in Texas.⁶ Moreover, if you want to practice along the Gulf Coast, going to Texas Tech may not make the most sense. Why? Location, location, location. In my case, I wanted to live in the FWAWF (Fort Worth-Abilene-Wichita Falls) triangle. Ipso facto going to law school in Ft. Worth (rather than Dallas or Waco) was a major factor for me. Now could I have gone to Baylor and still ended up on the path I’m on? Sure, but these “what if” questions are largely unhelpful when distributing unsolicited advice.

Bar-passage rates should also be considered. To give you an idea of what this looks like, consider the bar-passage results from 2018, 2019, 2021 for laws schools in Texas:⁷

You’ll see that Baylor, TAMU, and UT all had at least 90% passing in 2019, up from only Baylor and UT in 2018. You may also notice that other schools (no need to call them out) score less than or right around 70% (over even lower 😱). This is pretty bad. However, I can’t speak to the reasons behind these numbers; I can only let the numbers speak for themselves. Going back to the previous college football analogy, just because one team is ranked higher than its opponent doesn’t mean that the lower-ranked opponent has no superstar athletes. UT football proves that time and time again. Rankings simply show an aggregation of data. Bar-passage rates just so happen to be very important datum. Why? Because, at the end of law school, the only thing that matters is passing the bar. Sure, you want to network, make a few good friends, get a J-O-B, etc., but if the school is not preparing you to pass the bar, then it’s not worth much else. 

Sidebar: To brag on my TAMU Law Class of 2021, check out those bar passage rates!

This is also why LSAT scores matter so much to law schools as well: they indicate the likelihood of bar passage. Again, much of the LSAT score has more to do with repetition than mental dexterity, but both are important. Guys that could power clean 250lbs with no effort frustrated me in the past. I would work and work, following the regime, husting all the time, but couldn’t break 200lbs. Yet many of those same guys would fail a test that I never studied for and still aced. We all have different skill sets and the LSAT is no different. LSATers that naturally have the ability to analyze arguments and recognize fallacies have success just like people who have taken dozens of practice tests. 

That leaves us with scholarship. As far as I remember, TAMU automatically considered applicants for scholarships. I imagine the process went something like, “Okay, applicant 02141994 is accepted. Move him into the scholarship consideration pile.” A rubber stamp, that was meant to say “Accepted,” was then accidentally switched for the one that said “Scholarship offer,” and no one corrected their misdoing. Can’t complain though. The day I received that letter was one of the best days of my life. Not because I actually received a full-ride to attend law school, but because I was moving on with my life and getting out of a ruinous relationship.

Going to a law school that’s willing to financially invest in you is a great sign that they care about the wellbeing and success of their students. I have consistently found this to be true at TAMU and imagine it’s true at many law schools. Of course, the irony is the higher ranked law schools have less reason to award scholarships and can charge a higher sticker price at the same time. HLS grads can graduate with ~$200k in debt, but then land a job that makes ~$200k their first year out. Granted, those jobs require 70-90hr work weeks, but hey, if that’s what they want, go for it.

4. You’re in law school. What do you do now?

The night before law school orientation I watched Horse Feathers. You could start there. Just do something that will ease your mind. Never forget/Always remember that most people feel just as nervous, underqualified, and restless before starting something new. There are people to meet, relationships to form, social miscues to avoid—the list goes on. Aside from that, roll with the punches. Smile, engage, and be yourself. Friends have a way of finding each other despite the sea of orientational anonymity. 

Be prepared to absorb large amounts of information—mostly important, but often quixotic—as various school administrators and bar members discuss their fondness of incoming law students. On our first day, we had a guy talk to us about the dangers of alcohol abuse for a half-hour. It was mildly uncomfortable. His speech was tucked between the dean’s “Welcome to Law School! We’re so happy you’re here” speech and a judge’s “Studying the Law is the Best Decision you will ever make” sermon. Alcohol abuse is absolutely something to watch out for, though. The night before I met my wife, my buddies and I spent close to $400 at a bar down the street from the law school. It started as a post-exam celebration and ended (the next day) with the worst hangover of my life. More on that later. For now, it’s important to recognize that taking on law school is more akin to hiking up a mountain than driving across the country: you move across the landscape—at various speeds, taking breaks here and there, even snapping pictures of certain sights—but the scenery really doesn’t vary. You see the same faces, same classrooms, same library, same elevators, security guards, parking spots, sinks, urinals, carpet, and often feel the same “game day” intensity before each exam. Just like Sisyphus, you must continue pushing the boulder up the mountain. Your knowledge of the Law will evolve as will your understanding of case books, treatises, journal articles, and legal education. But the scenery? That will stay the same. 

With that in mind, I want to offer both a Macro Approach and a Micro Approach to your first year. During my first year, I foolishly ignored the Micro Approach, and I’ve been making up ground ever since. All Macro and no Micro makes Cole an existential sluggard. 

1. Macro approach to 1L year

The Macro Approach focuses on the Big Picture™: Where I am going? Why am I doing this? Why am I here? How will this help me get from Here to There, Point A to Point B, class to practice, etc. This is the issue with writing personal statements: we think we have to live up to what we wrote down that got us into law school in the first place. When we do that, we lose sight of the valuable lessons that are unplanned and unpromised. 

Before I started at TAMU Law, I negotiated a way to keep my job at BAL, which actually ended up being a promotion, while still attending law school full time. As such, my priorities did not shift from employee to student. Rather, I was a full-time student while I worked at BAL and a part-time worker while I was at law school. This was extremely problematic. Why? Because, to quote Ron Swanson, I was “half-assing” two things. When I got home from school and logged into work, I was exhausted. So I did the minimum amount of work necessary to justify my timesheet. When I got done with work, I’d crack open my reading assignment for the next day and skim until I felt confident enough to BS my way through a “cold call.” More on cold calls later. The end result: I hated work for taking away my study time, and I hated school for getting in the way of a bigger paycheck. 

However, it wasn’t all bad; it did wonders for my ego. My classmates quickly learned that I was working part-time at an actual, real-life, money-making, big-time law firm. I already had a job lined up, so going through law school was just a formality. I enjoyed talking in class and hanging out with classmates outside of class (usually with whiskey or coffee nearby). I developed a reputation for being an easy-going guy who still worked hard (or so I tell myself). The metaphorical brick wall came at the end of my first semester when my grades reflected a less-than-average performance: a few Bs sprinkled on top of B-s for good taste. How was that possible? I was smart! I worked hard! I made insightful jokes in class! I deserved better than this!⁸ 

The short explanation: My grade reflected the amount of effort I put into each class. Yes, I showed up for class, took notes, read cases, and asked questions. But, no, I didn’t review my notes, type up an outline, memorize that outline, go to office hours, or ask meaningful questions (i.e., questions that clarified the tested material as opposed to “hypos,”⁹ which law students come to despise).

Assignments should never sneak up on you. I’ve heard time and again that procrastination is the attorney’s biggest enemy. The same could be said for law students as well. Be sure to calendar all your classes, assignments, projects, meetings, etc., so you have the semester-view available at all times. If you know you’ll have two midterms or a paper due a certain week, it’ll provide the foresight necessary to start planning ahead. Otherwise, you’ll be so buried in your weekly reading that you’ll forget to “look up” and see a deadline coming in hot. 

With all that being said, there’s no need to pigeon-hole yourself to a particular “type” of law right out the gate. You’ll naturally find what areas of law you enjoy more than others and that will open the door to discovering more subsets within that area. I thought for certain I’d go back to BAL and practice corporate immigration. Now that same thought makes my tongue feel chalky and causes my shoulders to tense up. Plenty of good memories there, but no desire to make more. 

2. Micro approach to 1L year

The Micro Approach is more of a day-in-day-out application: tips, routines, productivity advice, etc. This is by no means a prescription, one-size-fits-all approach; rather, this is a framework that I found to work. 

What I learned since 1L year has stuck with me for my final two years and paid great dividends. Case in point: my 2L fall semester GPA was 3.7. That’s pretty damn good. I am certainly proud of it. With that in mind, here’s the regime I followed that helped my semester flow:

• Got married to the love of my life. Definitely turned my perspective around, but also gave me an accountability partner for several areas of my life, but particularly school.

• Wore a suit every day. I fielded dozens of questions along the lines of “Why are you doing that to yourself?”, “Do you have a job interview?”, and “You know we can wear sweats, right?” I took their questions all in stride with answers: “My wife likes it when I come home in a suit.” “Every day is a job interview.” “Yes, and that BBQ stain is doing wonders for your authority on fashion.” Truthfully, the suit gave me a sense of identity and purpose as the throes of law school wore me down even more. I was the guy that always wore a suit. People, whether they knew me, would know me as the guy that wore the suit. Moreover, by putting on the suit, I was getting ready for work—not school, but work: “an activity involving mental or physical effort done in order to achieve a purpose or result.”¹⁰ By wearing the suit, I knew I garnered attention which made me prepare that much more.

• Ditched the computer for a legal pad. Taking notes on the computer is one of the WORST things you can do in class. Seriously. Study after study have shown that memory retention is better when NO NOTES ARE TAKEN when compared to taking notes on the computer. Caveat: several classmates who eventually made it on to Law Review and Journal (more on these in the next section) typed their notes in a Word doc or OneNote (which is super cool garbage). How can I be so against computerized notes then? Because I know myself.  When I had my computer, typing away, bolding, underlining, hyperlinking, screenshotting, referencing, etc.—even if I truly was not goofing off, reading Athletic articles, looking up stats, or googling something the professor said—I was still distracted by the note-taking process rather than focusing on the substance of the notes. E.g., when typing up the elements of battery compared to the elements of assault, I was too focused on creating the right kind of chart rather than learning the actual differences. Going into 2L year, I learned the invaluable assistance of a yellow legal pad and a Ticonderoga #2 pencil with a blue BIC pen. Even writing this now makes me want to sit in a lecture with a fresh pad and sharpened pencil just so I can take notes.  

• At the end of each week, usually Fridays when there’s no class, I would type my notes into a manageable format. This is crucial. This is when the As are separated from the Bs. This is stretching after a workout. This is doing the dishes after a big meal. The book, How We Learn by Benedict Carey, largely focuses on repeated exposure as the most efficient way to retain what we have learned. When I read this, it was intuitive to me: learning to drive a car did not involve a simple manual followed by a few lectures from my folks. Rather, I repeatedly drove at any chance I got—backroads at first, but then to church, grocery store, Joe’s Pharmacy, Sonic, etc. The “learning” took place in the repetition and the repetition solidified what I had already learned.¹¹ 

• Distilled the typed notes into an outline as earlier as possible to start focusing on the most important aspects of the class. Taking a law school final is much like backpacking and this bullet point is Backpacking 101. You’re going into the wilderness with nothing but what you can fit on your back. Sure, we could walk around with a 100lbs backpack for a day or two and cover very little ground. But we’re aiming to cover ground during those finals, not observe every rock and tree along the way. Thus, the lighter our backpack, the further we can go, but the shorter the time we have before a “refill” is needed. When you’re going into an exam, especially during the first year, it’s a closed-book, closed-notes exam. Obviously, this means you can only use what’s in your noggin. The more you memorize, the better off you’ll be (i.e., the further you can go). But if you haven’t memorized the crucial aspects of the class—the metaphorical water, food, shelter—you’re basically carrying around a lot of nugatory weight. The outline is used to double-down on what’s important (e.g., the difference between battery and assault, the elements of a contract, the hugely, super important Twombly device, etc.) and start applying that information to the “fact pattern” (more on these in a bit). 

• A few rules of thumb here: When creating an outline, it’s best to mimic the table of contents in your doctrinal books and then supplement with your professors’ slides. I’ve found that this provides the best, high-level overview and gives you a clear “map” of where to go and which rabbit-holes to avoid. 

• A more nuanced pointer: Avoid singular sub-points. If you really need to hit “Enter/Return” + “tab” to create a sub-point, it means there’s more that’s needed to fully address the main point. If you have a hanging subpoint, then consider why it’s there and what value it provides to the preceding point. Usually, these are definitions that I prefer to include after a colon. 

• There’s a difference between an efficient map and effective map. For example, if I’m in a group of guys and we start discussing beer, a mental outline forms:

• Spirits

• Beer

• Wine

To stay on topic, I will choose to go down the “Beer” heading, but be prepared to jump over to “Spirits” and “Wine” if needed because it’s in the general category of “Alcohol.” The trick though is to know your audience. A completely acceptable outline may look like:

• Spirits

• Beer

• Lagers

• Coors Light

• Micalob Ultra

• Shiner Bock

• Ale

• Odell IPA

• Sierra Nevada Pale Ale

• Austin Beerworks Peacemaker

• Wine

However, the group I’m in may not give a damn about the brewing difference between lagers and ales and surely cares less about the delineation between India Pale Ales and other types of ales. Though this outline is efficient for amateur craft-brew enthusiasts, it may not be effective for run-of-the-mill bar-talk. A more efficient outline may look like:

• Spirits

• Margaritas: yes

• Whiskey: yes

• Gin: not yet

• Beer

• Stay away from flowery/fruity beer

• Cold and cheap

• It’s a lot easier to buy craft than brew craft. Hats off to:

• Rahr and Sons

• Austin Beerworks

• Deep Ellum

• Wine

• Dry & Red

• Crazy stories from Spain

Adapt your approach for the audience and anticipated conversation. It’s one thing to know what could be discussed (e.g., the different types of beers) and how you plan to discuss it (e.g., what you prefer to drink at a bar). When you’re taking the final, you can be pretty darn certain that you’ll need to know the difference between assault and battery, whether the statute of frauds applies, etc.; the difference will be if you’re prepared to effectively discuss these topics, not whether you have efficiently noticed their existence.¹² 

• Finally, get involved with student organizations and get to know a handful of professors you enjoy. Student organizations are really a nice line on the resume and give you the opportunity to meet folks you wouldn’t otherwise meet. Plus, it’ll give you several opportunities to flex your leadership and people management skills (very important for opening up doors in the future). In my experience, a professor’s personality in the classroom is the same as it is during their office hours. If you find them insufferable in class, give them the benefit of the doubt first,¹³ but don’t feel like you must go to their office hours just to chat. One of my favorite professors, Timothy Mulvaney, was interviewing me, unbeknownst to me, during the first office hours I went to. I legitimately had questions about the material and revered his intellectual capacity, so our conversations were always lively. However, he ultimately asked me to be one of his research assistants, which has paid greater dividends than I’ll probably ever truly appreciate. 

• Finally, finally: do your best to limit your social interactions with classmates. I’m all for grabbing beers with the guys after class, but I am very thankful that I did not get intertwined with the “popular” crowd¹⁴ or becoming romantically involved¹⁵ with any classmates during the first year. This should definitely be one of the biggest differences between college and law school. Your law school peers eventually become your professional colleagues. There are several classmates I have a hard time taking seriously because of how they interacted on our group text, dressed up for Halloween parties, etc. Probably problematic on my end (holier-than-thou, etc.), but worth considering nonetheless. 

5.  2L year and beyond

This section plays largely into the Macro Approach, mainly because the Micro Approach should stick with you (adapting/evolving at the end of each semester to implement more efficient routines) during all three years. Once you have your 1L grades, you should also know if you made Law Review (typically top 10%) or Journal (top 20%) with a “write-on” option for those that are in the top 50%. I wasn’t in any of these categories. One buddy “graded-on” to Journal and a few others  had the opportunity to “write-on” but chose not to. I say all this to ground the foregoing discussion of the importance—and unimportance—of law school grades. 

Your law school grades will stick with you during your entire legal career. I’m willing to bet any attorney who graduated with honors has some sort of laude next to his or her name. For me, I will graduate thank the Laude. With that in mind, three years of grades has a tremendous impact on your legal career projection. Those that graduate in the top 10% or on the Law Review Editorial Board have an incredible number of opportunities that a weary simpleton like me does not have. Why? Because of the on-campus interviews (OCIs) that take place before 2L year. Firms have a mass interviewing frenzy to attract their next batch of associates. Firms, typically large to mid-size, will post a summer clerkship opportunity to several law schools that they want to recruit from. The more prestigious the firm, the more prestigious the postings. Some firms are known to only hire from Ivy League schools, for example. The school will then release these postings to the student body. Students sift through the postings to figure out which firms they want to apply for, or in my case, are qualified to apply for. Each posting will specify the GPA cut-off—top 50%, 33%, 25%, 10%—and other “preferred” qualifications—law review, mock trial, saving orphans in Uganda, personally knowing Mr. Zuckerberg, etc.—to reduce the number of applications. This goes back to the numbers game that law schools have to play as well: with thousands of applications to sort through, quantified cut-offs make things a whole lot easier for the selection committee. So if Joe Shmoe, who is in the bottom 25%, sends in his application to Fatum Assalley LLP, a reputable, high-power law firm, who immediately tosses Joe Schmoe’s application in the trash and moves on. It’s not worth their time to pan for gold when they have a pile of gold already sitting next to them. 

In my case, I applied to 30 or so law firms, knowing damn well I didn’t meet their grade criterion, in hopes that they would like my actual work experience more than my lackluster grades. Nope. I was wrong. Sure, I had a few bites, but that was it. Of course, that’s all it had to be for me as well. As you know, McMahon Surovik Suttle decided to bring me in for an interview (my only interview), offered me a summer clerkship (my only clerkship offer), and ultimately offered me a job (a blessing upon blessing). A lesson can still be learned: grades matter for big-time legal opportunities. 

At this juncture, here’s my best advice regarding grades: make the best possible grades—give it everything you got—and the rest will follow. I’m not saying you have to be in the top 5 of your class to be successful; I’m not saying there are no opportunities for those that can’t rise above a B average; I’m saying do things the right way and good things will come. Again, the lesson I learned from 1L year is work experience teaches what classes cannot. However, when taken together, it’s better to have high grades in law school AND work experience rather than only work experience when trying to move up the law school ladder. 

Here comes the caveat: if you’re dead set on not climbing the law school ladder, not moving through the ranks, opening up doors that only come from being successful in law school (e.g., clerking for a judge), then grades only show what you want them to show: what you truly value and what you want others (i.e., employers, clients, investors, partners, etc.) to see must come from some other metric. For example, if you know, without a shadow of a doubt, that you’re going to graduate law school and open your own practice, then you’re probably better off gaining as much hands-on experience as possible rather than trying to get an A in every class. Why? Because that practical experience will pay bigger dividends (e.g., knowing how to interview a client, draft a contract, probate a will, etc.) than any A on a transcript possibly could show. If your end goal is to catch, clean, and cook a fish, you’re better off fishing than reading about the whaling practices circa-1851. Antithetically, if you want to land the highest paying associate job outside of law school, you better be damn certain you’re making As in all your classes.

6. Avoiding 3L cynicism/complacency

At this point, I recommend writing an article that truly interests you and getting it published in a law review journal. Work with a professor who publishes in that area. Utilize the library staff to learn how the submission/publication process works. And let ‘er rip. I recommend formatting the paper in the basic IRAC form, but put a policy spin to it so there is a call to action. Lead the way forward.

7. Why charting a path is for free birds—and wise sailors

Graham, I appreciated the answers to the “pesky interview questions.” They offered depth and analysis that can’t often be communicated in a routine conversation. With that being said, I can understand their “peskiness.” Questions such as “What are you going to do after graduation?” or “What do you plan to do with that?” seem to presuppose we are bouncing from stepping stone to stepping stone as though we are the ones who laid them down and understand their purpose. This “Stepping Stone Mentality” was—and still is—detrimental to my faith. If I’m always doing X so I can know/do/accomplish Y, then I’m left wondering what happens if Y suddenly goes away or morphs into an ambiguous Z. For example, when someone asked me the pesky “What is your major?” question in college, I would honestly reply that I was studying philosophy. The inevitable follow-up would be, “What do you plan to do with that?” as though studying philosophy was a hammer or knife (not to make mention of metaphorical applications, of course). My predisposed response was that I planned to attend law school. That response was sufficient for their pesky questions, but the implicit connection between “philosophy major” and “law school” still strikes me as woefully inadequate. Perhaps saying that I planned to go to culinary school or climb mountains would incite additional follow-up questions, but that is a great discussion for another time. My point here is that the “Stepping Stone Mentality” continues to plague my thoughts even though I am currently in law school. Sure, I majored in philosophy (X) so I could go to law school (Y), but now that I’m in law school (Y), pesky questions such as “What kind of law do you want to practice?” (Z) creep into routine conversation. The questioners mean no harm, yet they reinforce the presumption that we are doing X for Y, Y for Z, and Z for…ad nauseam. To truly take a step back, I studied philosophy, because I loved studying philosophy! Philosophy provided the underpinning for so many of my other interests and one-off pursuits, that it was as though I couldn’t not study philosophy. Perhaps this sentiment echoes truth for you as well; maybe it casts a rock along the stepping stones we are accustomed to walking, creating ripples along the water we never realized was there. After all, what good are stepping stones if they don’t help us cross a river or ravine? The trap I fell into during my first months (and years) after college graduation was believing the stepping stones would carry on forever; that I must continue stepping from here to there; that I must continue pursuing X for Y. God had—and still has—a plan for our lives that thankfully does not involve prearranged stepping stones of our own placement and choosing. Instead, I believe God calls us to work where our feet are—whether we’re on a stone or in the river—and keep trusting Him for His guidance. Thankfully, this requires I place my faith in God every day even when I can’t see the next stone as I continue stepping. After all, the value is in the present progressive: living, stepping, trusting, breathing, creating. All of these concepts continue to take place in our lives, but no, I don’t believe we should be expected to always know the Y for our X or the end for our beginning. The Lord lays out the stepping stones, but it’s our duty to work where our feet are. Your questions regarding an ideal job and distractions especially resonated with me as well. I go back and forth with what an ideal job looks like which is often the root of my perpetual distraction. I don’t believe we as humans—especially as men—were created to be in front of a computer all day nor are we called to play “nice” inside a cubicle. I seem to always romanticize the guys who build homes, plant fields, or otherwise work outside and develop calloused hands. Perhaps that is my own insecurity about the work I currently do and the work I anticipate doing in the next several years. Then again, maybe that’s my spirit echoing truth that I need to be distracted by more often. Regardless, I trust God will take us where He needs us to be, and the more we trust Him for the next stone, the more peace and power we will feel with our earthly jobs. Thanks again for taking the time to share your analysis with us. I look forward to more updates.

So that’s it. That’s my “Guide to Law School” (first edition, of course). There will be several more lessons, observations, and recommendations as the years pile on, but this is what I know now that I want to share with you and anyone else that’s willing to read my ramblings. 

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1 Dictionary^↩
2 Had I known Hillbilly Elegy and Educated were already in the works, I probably would have found a more convincing and original narrative.^↩
3 See 7-Sage’s YouTube explanations. They come in handy.^↩
4 Or was it a football? Tennis ball? Who knows. ^↩
5 Should be self-explanatory: Tier 1 schools are the top 15ish: Harvard, Yale, Columbia, and rounding out with Texas. Tier 2 are by all means respectable and quality programs. Their likelihood of eventually landing one of their alumni on the Supreme Court? Slim to none. Tier 3 schools are also good programs in that students still graduate with a legitimate JD and have the tools to pass the bar, but some teeter on the break of existence for poor bar passage rates and/or poor attendance. Rankings = applications = enrollment = $$$ = faculty, facilities, etc. = rankings.^↩
6 I have classmates who are eager to return to California, New England, and the South by way of Ft. Worth School of Law. Although very bright kids, they anticipated “traveling” more while in law school. Ha!^↩
7 https://ble.texas.gov/statistics. I intentionally left out 2020 results because they’re an anomaly of sorts. Lots of guys I know took the bar in other states or waited to take it. However, I still recommend you check it out to get an idea of how COVID-19 affected test takers. Lots of moving pieces and even preliminary discussions of forsaking the bar for an apprenticeship model or diploma privilege. ^↩
8 Editor’s Note: Hopefully the petulance is seeping through the pages right now.^↩
9 “Hypo” is short for “hypothetical question.” Most of these questions could literally begin with “So, hypothetically, if…” but more times than not they start with “Okay, I understand x, but what if y?” or “What if y wasn’t x. Would x still be q?” Contracts, Torts, and Criminal Law were particularly prone to hypos. There’s no issue with clarifying the material; the issue is with asking dumb-dumb questions that detract from what’s really important or what’s likely to be covered on the exam. There’s a case you’re likely to cover in Contracts called Webster v. Blue Ship Tea Room. Basically, a lady chokes on a fish bone found in her fish chowder and the court has to determine whether expecting a fish bone should have been expected. Enter possible hypos: What if it was the Green Ship Team Room? What if she had been wearing a pink dress instead? What if the sun was in her eyes? Etc. Borderline hypos: What if she had an unusually small esophagus? What if what clam chowder instead? Great question: What if she had eaten fish chowder at this restaurant before? The response I got from Prof. Short when I asked these irrelevant, but possibly insight questions, was, “That’s a great question. I don’t know the answer, but I know it would make a great law review article.” After awhile, I learned that translated to, “Do your creative thinking in office hours or on your own time. Now’s not the time to fall down the rabbit hole.” ^↩
10 Dictionary^↩
11 If this is elementary to you, my dear Watson, then forgive me. I winged a lot of my tests in college and wrote several papers that required arguments rather than recitation.^↩
12 Fingers crossed that this analogy makes more sense after you’ve created your outline and tried your hand at a practice test. Ah, yes, practice tests. Probably a good time to mention them. Student services and 1L professors hand them out like cheap masks. And like cheap masks, a majority of students see their importance, use it once, and then throw them away. Switching analogies, much like LSAT practice tests, these practice tests are primarily the difference between top-scoring students and middle-of-the-curve students. The first couple of tests, use your outline and type out your answer. The whole thing. Get a feel for what a law school exam will actually comprise. Don’t make my mistake and half-ass an outlined response which largely mimics copy/pasting your outline anyways. Type out the Issue, Rule, Analysis, Conclusion as though you were handing it in. This will put you so far ahead of your classmates and set you up for a great game-day performance. ^↩
13 My Constitutional Law professor, Lynn Rambo, was adored by several other students. Think TAMU Law celebrity status. During one of her classes, I had a complete fail of a cold call, but I stumbled through it. Ultimately, I got the second-highest grade in her class—a class she had been teaching for 20ish years—and took her again for Evidence. Once I overcame her sense of humor, she was a delightful teacher and happily recommended me to Justice Bailey to be his summer intern. Many fond memories took place during her lectures.^↩
14 They always make themselves known…^↩
15 Probably goes without saying, but if you meet your wife in law school, don’t substitute ink on a page for what you know to be True. However, I do think there’s wisdom in not rushing into any relationship with someone you meet in law school, friends or otherwise. Everyone is anxious to find their group, and you most certainly will before you realize it, but creating long-term drama is disadvantageous. Again, this is a mountain climb, not a cross-country trip.^↩