Memory isn’t a recording—it’s reconstruction.

Whenever a writer recalls a memory, the brain rewires it. This process, known as memory reconsolidation, means that memories are not retrieved in their original form but reassembled each time they are accessed. This makes memory vulnerable to distortion, omission, and even fabrication.

Our brains don’t store memories like a digital archive; they reconstruct them from fragments, filling in gaps with assumptions and contextual clues. This is why two people can recollect the same event differently—they’ve reconstructed the memory with different missing pieces.

Emotion plays a significant role in memory stability. Highly emotional experiences are more likely to be remembered vividly due to the amygdala’s influence on encoding. But that vividness doesn’t guarantee accuracy—it only makes us more confident in what we recall, whether or not it’s true.

That’s why it’s important to jot down memories quickly—before nostalgia or time distorts details, before they morph into wishful embellishment. Revision inevitably alters how we frame the past, and great writers have always known that memory is a story we tell ourselves. Writing shapes that story as much as remembering does.

If we don’t write down our memories before our brain rewires them, we risk rewriting them.

And since good writing comes from rewriting and revision, here is an effective way to keep the past intact while allowing it to evolve:

1. Write a first draft and spill out details exactly as you recall them. Let it be raw, unfiltered, and unpolished.

2. Make a copy to revise. Now, you can shape the narrative, refine language, rearrange structure, and emphasize meaning over strict accuracy.

The original draft remains a preserved artifact of how you initially remembered something.

This is especially useful if you’re fictionalizing real experiences. Memoir and fiction serve different masters—one strives for truth, the other for emotional resonance.

Neuroscience tells us that memory is fluid. Writing makes it tangible.

If we want to capture truth before it shifts, we must write—and then rewrite—with intention.