help with my statement

this is my "Statement of Purpose" that i want to submit for applications. I accept all comments, reactions, hate-mail, inspiration, and anything else. I have to ship it off next week. So... what do you think?

My writing speaks for itself, but I, considering both my writing and this personal statement, obviously don't.
I remember reading on the creased back of a D.H. Lawrence novel that he is considered the most passionate writer ever in the English language. That same night I set out to relinquish his title.
It was a very hormonal, Sturm und Drang stage of writing for me. I was in a blitz, writing sometimes thirty pages a night, bouncing off walls like bats with their ears plugged, imagining myself arm-wrestling Proust, beating Cormac McCarthy to the draw, out-reading Borges and all the while trying to erode my keyboard into a blank, hyperactive, perfect encryption that would spew and spawn illimitable prose. That phase, after exhausting my post-teen angst, settled into a circadian, less panting, more livable life that didn't need to prove itself to survive and whose goals were never arbitrary, but now landmarks on the way to further watchfulness and exploration.
I finished my first novel a few weeks ago. It's called 100 Euphemisms for Mountain. It's a love story.
The most difficult part of my novel was not writing it. Dedication I have innately. Even deleting chunks of text, which were at one point in my life as purposeful and dear as organs, became a painless editorial task. Measuring my novel, or reading it as a reader would, was the most challenging part. As I am enormously influenced by certain authors, I tend to bend and flux my writing at the whim of my reading. When I pick up a Virginia Wolf paperback, or a Shakespeare play, or an essay by Helene Cixous, or Moby Dick, or a dithyramb from Joyce or Nietzsche, my life changes, I watch the world differently, and as surely as gossip will follow politics, my prose, like a dingy after a yacht, tacks faithfully trailing behind me. So, in the initial draft of the novel I dallied between six or seventeen different styles, depending on my variegated, myriad moodswings that took place in the eighteen months I was writing it. After I drove in the last nail and I began the beautiful, titillating experience of reading and editing a hairless new novel, I had to begin to sieve out my own voice, had to learn how to measure the rants against their pertinence, the neologisms against their disturbance, and the quirks against their poignancy.
As there is no dogma, thank God, for what is and isn't effective, subtle, piquant or maudlin, I learned by experience, intuition, and upshot.
Though I have dappled in the world of send your story here, there, writer's market, query letter, etc, writing always got in the way of licking stamps or bustling after the perfect journal. I was sadly and typically deterred from the dominion of the New Yorker and I, simply, wrote. And I would've gone on writing, happy, farsighted, and typing myself silly if I had not learned that community catalysis is frequently stifled, or negated, by the heavy-hearted solipsism that is often bred in skuzzy, dusty studio apartments. So I longed for academia, not out of loneliness or visions of tweed blazers and ascot ties, but out of my natural ability to thrive in the midst of thinkers. Like Spanish moss alighted in a virgin pine forest, academia is my dank, shadowed tree bark.
I started a publishing company, Eight and a Half by Eleven. In the first year we wrote, illustrated, designed, printed, and sold about two hundred copies of five different books. Independent publishing and indiscriminately organized idealism is a world that I love and that I won't give up. But my drive goes beyond the inde bookstore. Not in terms of mass distribution, or recognition, but in terms of exploring the ends and the antipodes, of climbing atop the shoulders of giants, of doing all I can to press the humpaday, lusterless gaze of mankind into the throes of passion, as so many authors have done for me. I long to go beyond the metaphor, bring fiction into the stomach, and the words into the throat. It is my drive and it is what I bring to you and your institution.

It was not until I began this officious, drooling, hypnotic binge of graduate school applications that I was able to truly appreciate the dry, extended witticisms of Kafka. What rigmarole and hoops I've been assaulted through to try to get four undergraduate schools to send you transcripts, or three professional men to send you recommendations, or one befuddled internet connection to complete an online application, and so I've had plenty of tongue-clacking, thumb-twiddling hours to ruminate my true artistic purpose.
I came up with three basic ideas:
To find a mentor.
To assist in the displacement of pop culture with jazz music.
To write closer to truth.

Thank you.