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

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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

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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.

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Writing Fiction, or Non-fiction, Research is Key

By Patrick Kendrick

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I have been fortunate to have my books published for some sixteen years. Throughout my writing career I have learned that research is THE key to pulling in readers and adding authenticity to your work, even if it is fiction. If you’re doing non-fiction, research is even more paramount. 

With fiction, many writers believe they can write whatever comes to mind, creating strong characters, their environments, backgrounds and whatever plot they wish to follow. But if you’re writing historical fiction, it is a must that you follow, or get as close to, following what was happening at the specific time in history you are writing about. 

My newest book, Edison’s Last Breath, a historical mystery that involves several real-life characters, such as Henry Ford, Charles Lindbergh, Josephine Baker, and Ernest Heminway (once again from my first book, Papa’s Problem). My primary character, Emmet MacWain meets these people when there is a murder at Henry Ford’s winter home in Ft. Myers, Florida. I was inspired to write about Josephine Baker as it was revealed that she was not only the biggest entertainer of her time, but that she was also a spy for the French resistance. 

As with Papa’s Problem, in which Hemingway is a murder suspect, I found that I could not just write what I knew from lore. Libraries, particularly those that exist where the character lived—Hemingway in the earlier book, and Ford and Baker in the present book—are useful as they may house personal letters and documents from the real-life character. In Edison’s Last Breath, I had the opportunity to go to the Ford and Edison estates in Ft. Myers, Florida, where, to my astonishment, I found a corked test tube, with an accompanying note read, “This tube contains Thomas Edison’s Last Breath.” Hence the title of my book, Edison’s Last Breath.

Initially I thought it was some sort of hoax, but as I researched the odd item, I found out that, as he was dying, Edison, a close friend and mentor to Henry Ford, would try to save what he thought was his last breath for his friend, Ford. Charles Edison, the son of Thomas, stayed with his father while he was in his death bed. Each time he thought his father was exhaling his last breath, he would try to capture it. I did not make this up! 

I was bowled over by this fact, and my novel took a new direction that took us to many places, including Josphine Baker’s chateau in France, where I found out even more about this heroic woman who spied for the French. She was so good at entertaining people, that German officers who suspected she was a spy would go to her home with intent to find some evidence, for which they might arrest her. But Josphine was so clever and such a dynamic performer, she would charm the soldiers with wine, dinner and a personal show, and the Nazis would forget what they came for. Baker was one of the bravest spies ever.

That was the cool thing I found out. The not-so-cool thing I found out as well, was that both Ford and Lindbergh were antisemitic, Nazi supporters.  Lindbergh was gifted a plane by the furor himself and had several mistresses in Germany, while Ford had contracts with the Germans to make trucks for their Army during our country’s war with them. Lindbergh was awarded the Serve Cross of the Order of the German Eagle, while Ford was awarded the Grand Cross of the German Eagle.

Working on my previous book (for some 20 years) “American Ripper: The Enigma of America’s Serial Killer Cop,” I had to do much more, shall we say hazardous research, such as visiting the serial killer, Gerard Schaefer, in jail. Schaefer was convicted of two murders but was believed to have committed dozens more. He typically killed two girls at a time, often picking them up in his patrol car as they were hitch-hiking. 

I spent many years writing this story because of its true nature and because so many people had to be interviewed: police who worked with Schaefer and investigated his murders, the lawyers who prosecuted him as well as his public defender, surviving family members, the killer’s mother, and many police officers in numerous states, who I still hear from, when they find another body. Just last year, I was called by a police officer who was investigating cold cases. They had found a body, a teenage girl back 1972 in a mangrove-covered area where Schaefer used to take his victims. She was never identified until an officer from Palm Beach County Sheriff’s office took over the cold cases. 

The victim was found with wire tied in knots around her hands and feet. She was skeletonized but the wire knots were still intact. Many police officers know who I am from my research and my book, so he called me and asked if I has any pictures from Schaefer’s crime scenes. I had copies made years ago from the evidence files (though I chose not to use them in my book for the sake of the families who lost their children). The cold case cop sent me the pictures they took of the knotted wire, and they matched knots that Schaefer utilized on his victims. So now that had a connection between Schaefer and the victim, Karen Poole. We also found that Schaefer used to live just around the corner from the victim.

So, research—good, intense research—can add reality to your fiction novel, or the stark truth in a non-fiction book on true crime.