Between Pen and Paper: Flaneuring Through a Writer’s Mind – Time Travel Through Memory’s Imaginary Paths, or How the Brain Edits Your Past
By Andi Kopek
Have you ever caught yourself remembering something that never happened?
I currently, while writing my debut novel, am also working on my second one—meaning I’m collecting information, doing research, scouting locations, and interviewing family members. The novel will be loosely based on my family history and will span over 300 years, starting (if arranged chronologically) in 1821 and ending in 2160. One might call it historical science fiction.
While gathering family stories, I recalled events from my early childhood—or, to be precise, discovered that my recollections did not match the memories of my family’s elders. Without needing to go into the details of the events at this time, that realization prompted me to reflect on what we actually remember.
Our brains, those tireless editors, can’t resist revising the past. Each time we recall an event, we open the file, tweak a line, shift the tone, and hit save again—sometimes without realizing the edits we’ve made. Neuroscientists call this reconsolidation: memory not as a photograph but as a living document, rewritten every time we look. We don’t remember the original event; we remember the last time we remembered it.
Writers, of course, do it professionally. We time-travel through memory like reckless tourists—freely changing dialogue, repainting the sky, swapping characters. We think we’re preserving the past, but really, we’re composing it. The story of our lives is less a memoir than a series of ongoing drafts—each one a little truer to how we feel, and a little farther from what actually happened.
We like to think of memory as an archive—a room full of drawers neatly labeled childhood, college, that one heartbreak we swear we’re over. But the mind doesn’t keep good filing cabinets. Recalling the past is more like being half archaeology, half alchemy. While a restless archaeologist meticulously brushes the dust from fossilized fragments, an alchemist whispers spells over them, turning stone into gold—or gold back into stone.
Some of you, particularly readers of Killer Nashville Magazine and attendees of our annual conference, may have experienced this firsthand in court. When witnesses are called to testify, they believe they’re replaying an exact recording of what happened. But decades of research—especially by cognitive psychologist Elizabeth Loftus—show otherwise. A witness doesn’t press play; they reconstruct the scene, influenced by the questions asked, the room’s tension, even the faces watching them. Every courtroom becomes a theater of memory—actors, in good faith, improvise a scene while being convinced that the scene has been already written. The result isn’t false. It’s just… rewritten. Imagine a writer as a witness—the two-sided power of good storytelling.
Memory’s gaps, forgetting’s loopholes, and the brain’s determination to improvise its own facts are irresistible tools for any thriller or detective writer. Imagine the plot twists, red herrings, and narrative whiplash this flawed instrument of the mind can offer.
So, what’s real? What’s real in the past? Perhaps that’s why the epigraph of my next novel will include a quiet confession: based on the reality of my imagination. Because really, what else could memory be? Every time we recall, we revise. Every time we revise, we fold the past into the present tense. We don’t travel back in time—we reassemble it from the pieces still within reach. In other words, our memories are the latest translation of the remembered past.
One might even say, particularly a therapist, that our imperfect memories are a blessing—a kind of survival kit. If memory were permanent, perfectly accurate, there’d be no forgiveness, no growth, no moving on—only haunted houses. The edits save us, whether we like it or not. The new drafts keep us alive. Forgetting, sometimes, is better than remembering. And our minds, generous cartographers, fill in the blank spaces when the map tears in two.
So the next time you find yourself remembering something that never happened, don’t get upset. Step inside it. Wander through its corridors. You’re not lying to yourself—you’re time-traveling through the only past that still breathes: the one your imagination keeps seeing and revising.
Andi
Andi Kopek is a multidisciplinary artist based in Nashville, TN. With a background in medicine, molecular neuroscience, and behavioral change, he has recently devoted himself entirely to the creative arts. His debut poetry collection, Shmehara, has garnered accolades in both literary and independent film circles for its innovative storytelling.
When you’re in Nashville, you can join Andi at his monthly poetry workshop, participate in the Libri Prohibiti book club (both held monthly at the Spine bookstore, Smyrna, TN), or catch one of his live performances. When not engaging with the community, he's hard at work on his next creative project or preparing for his monthly art-focused podcast, The Samovar(t) Lounge: Steeping Conversations with Creative Minds, where in a relaxed space, invited artists share tea and the never-told intricacies of their creative journeys.
website: andikopekart.ink
FB: https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100093119557533
IG: https://www.instagram.com/andi.kopek/
