How reliable are our memories?
Most of us no longer keep a diary. As computers took over our lives, letters and diaries have fallen out of fashion. A shame, no doubt, but it’s part of the evolution of how we document our lives. Today it’s likely Facebook memories gives more people a jolt from the past than any handwritten note would do.
When it comes to writing a memoir, most clients rely on memory. But without solid references from our past, how do we know we’re remembering correctly?
The answer is: we don’t.
In Will Storr’s excellent book, ‘The Science of Storytelling’ he explains how we are all unreliable narrators. The way our brains operate makes this so. Storr gives an example of how neuroscientists Professors Roger Sperry and Michael Gazzaniga proved this with an incredible (and incredibly disturbing) study. The pair explored the circuitry of the brain by answering the question: ‘What would happen if you planted an instruction into a brain and somehow hid it from the narrator?’
The brain’s left hemisphere generates word and speech making and operates as our narrator whereas the right-hand side operates memory, reasoning and problem solving.
In this study the professors used epileptic patients with split circuity to ‘show’ the patient an instruction ( in this case the word WALK) without telling the narrator brain why they were walking.
Incredibly the patient stood up and walked and when the experimenter asked them why they were walking they immediately came up with a reason, saying they were going to get a drink.
What was happening was this. The brain observed the command ‘walk’ and quickly made up a story to explain the reason for this. Really the patient had no idea why, but quickly they made a reasoning out of their movement.
The experiments revealed this happens time and time again. The job of the narrating part of the brain is to make sense of the world, to tell ourselves stories. This led experts to realise the only way humans can make sense of the world is to make things up. We tell ourselves stories about ourselves, others and the world around us even if they are not true.
So where does this leave our memories? When we try and write a memoir we essentially are relying on an unreliable narrator. As Storr says: “This is why life can be such a vexing struggle. It’s why we disappoint ourselves with behaviour that’s mysterious and self-destructive. It’s why we shock ourselves by saying the unexpected. We are led to believe we really know who we are, but we don’t.’
This is especially true when we become emotional. For example, decisions we would make when angry look very different to when we’re calm and content.
It’s why, Storr explains, we need to confabulate, when we try to make sense of our lives and our reasoning for doing things. It’s why memories can appear differently within the same families, how our recollection of events can vary wildly from person to person.
This doesn’t mean memoirs are made-up lies (well they could be, but the most powerful memoirs remain authentic and often readers respond to the parts of the story which ring most true). It doesn’t mean events we recall did not happen, of course not.
But it does mean we are all fallible beings when it comes to our past, especially when we sit down to write and record what has happened and why we responded to events the way we did.
Sitting with a ghostwriter helps unpick the important stories in a memoir. Recalling events together during lengthy interviews can knit together a life to the best of the author’s ability. The truth lies with what we believe in, and everyone has a right to tell their own story, in their own voice.
Shannon Kyle