As a true apathetic toward nonfiction novels, memoirs have an unusual way of winning me over. 

Each chapter, each new anecdote, recounts the ebbs and flows of an author’s life, touching every subject from emotional pitfall to pure euphoria.

I find it amusing, however, that every page I turn and every struggle I read, it makes me feel like I’m forging an intimate connection with an author, someone who doesn’t even know of my existence. 

But that is what I appreciate about memoirs. I get to learn from an author’s hardships as an observer who does not want to, nor has the means of getting involved.

That being said, if I was ever asked to write a memoir about my life, I’d politely decline. It feels like a haughty, pretentious way of presenting myself, especially as someone who has been blessed with a simple, drama-free life. 

Or maybe I’ll become someone famous who experiences page-turning, harrowing problems that I’ll solve in an astute manner. But even so, I’d rather express those stories through simple letters or Reddit posts.

But in an alternative reality where I am forced to write my simple memoir, there would be three distinct chapters.

Somewhere towards the beginning of the book would be a chapter titled, “Rainbow,” representing the array of colorful friendships I have discovered in an eleven-person friend group that I so dearly love. 

Depicted in this chapter would be all of our little accomplishments – finishing the card game Phase 10 during lunch, learning how to play poker, our blackjack runs during Pathophysiology and our Nintendo Overcooked game nights.

Another chapter would be titled “Goodbye Oxford Comma,” in reference to my three years as a part of The Sidekick family. There, I would spend pages on end thanking my upperclassmen for embracing me in their warmth, my fellow seniors for always keeping me grounded, my junior staff for being the constant beacon of light in D115 and my young sophomores who never seem to run out of fresh ideas. And of course, I’d pay my homage to the best adviser, who I seem to now relate to more often than not, reminding me that I’m only getting older.

The part that hits the hardest in a memoir for me is always the end. There’s a tinge of poignance as the author wraps up their final thoughts in a perfectly curated inspirational last sentence.

I’ve been thinking of this sentence for years, and it would lay perfectly at the end of my third and final chapter, dedicated to all of the brilliant little ways my family has navigated life. 

Now I know that I have college and all of my future ahead of me, but no matter what, the final sentence of my last Letter from the editor, my last story on Coppell Student Media and my fictitious memoir would read:

Thank you to my family: my wonderful parents and beautiful older sister who are my reason for life.

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