Between Pen and Paper: Flaneuring Through a Writer’s Mind – The Quiet Power of a Daffodil

By Andi Kopek

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This month, spring is in full bloom in Nashville. With weekly downpours woven between stretches of cloudless skies, the city becomes a lush green canvas—Eastern Redbuds paint the landscape with magnificent, three-dimensional splashes of purple, while daffodils jewel the lawns like yellow sapphires.

Which reminds me—April is National Poetry Month. All across town, and hopefully around the world, we celebrate both rhymed and free verse in readings, festivals, quiet moments, and spontaneous snippets of overheard beauty. I’m always in awe of how many people, from all walks of life, carry a love for poetry with them—whether at events, lectures, bookstores, or even in casual conversation. During a recent talk at a local college, I encouraged students to become poets even if they never write a single line. To me, being a poet begins with paying attention— with contemplating the world around you and within you. The poem, I told them, always starts with a reflection— seeing something with a fresh eye.

Why do so many people love poetry? Perhaps because in a world that prizes brutal efficiency and unwavering certainty, poetry offers a rare permission to wonder and to feel deeply. It provides a harbor on an island of peace when raging storms roil the seas of reality. People love poetry because it gives shape to what so often feels unshapable—a fleeting feeling, a moment too delicate to explain. Poetry holds these things gently, without needing to pin them down. It invites us to slow down, to discover meaning not just in what is said, but in what is left unsaid. It offers the joy of speaking in metaphor when plain language falls short.

Most people have nothing against poets—well, maybe with the exception of authoritarian governments, which tend to see poets as a threat. I wonder why?

I remember being told by my parents that in 1968, on the stage of Warsaw’s National Theatre, actor Gustaw Holoubek delivered a performance that would echo far beyond the velvet curtains. He was playing the lead in Dziady (Forefathers’ Eve), a poetic drama by Adam Mickiewicz, long cherished as a symbol of Poland’s soul and suffering. Mickiewicz had written it under Russian occupation in the 19th century, but Holoubek’s electrifying performance gave voice to national frustration and hope under post-World War II Soviet rule. It was more than just theater—it was a symbolic act of resistance. During one particular scene, Holoubek’s character said:

“(…) You know,

Our nation’s like a living volcano: the top is hard and cold,

worthless and dried,

but boiling, fiery lava seethes inside.”

He then rattled his chains and directed his gaze toward Soviet Ambassador Averky Aristov, who was in attendance. The ambassador, red-faced, left the theater immediately. The Soviet- controlled government swiftly banned the production and fired Holoubek—actions that ignited student protests and became the catalyst for the famous political unrest of March 1968 in Poland. The demonstrations were violently suppressed, but they marked the beginning of a new wave of resistance that would eventually lead to the rise of Solidarity (Solidarność) in the 1980s and, ultimately, to freeing Poland from the communist regime oppression.

Poetry has sparked fires elsewhere, too. On March 15, 1848, Hungarian poet Sándor Petőfi stood on the steps of the National Museum in Budapest and read his poem titled Nemzeti Dal (National Song) aloud. By the end of that very day, a revolution had begun. In India, the Urdu poem Sarfaroshi Ki Tamanna (The Desire for Sacrifice), written in 1921 by Bismil Azimabadi, became the anthem of anti-colonial resistance—recited by young revolutionaries with death sentences on their breath. Even in the digital age, poetry played its part: during the Arab Spring of 2010–11, verses by Egyptian poet Abdel Rahman al-Abnoudi flew faster than bullets, smuggled in tweets and scrawled on walls, igniting courage where fear once lived. In the United States, Maya Angelou’s Still I Rise became a rallying force that gave voice to the oppressed:

“You may write me down in history With your bitter, twisted lies,

You may trod me in the very dirt But still, like dust, I’ll rise.”

I like to reflect on the raging social fires a poem can spark when I look at a single daffodil in my lawn, newly born from the old soil.

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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 upcoming 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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Between Pen and Paper: Flaneuring Through a Writer’s Mind – Finding Inspiration

By Andi Kopek

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A few days ago, an email landed in my inbox with an intriguing idea: Contribute to Killer Nashville Magazine! The email encouraged writers to submit single pieces, pitch the entire series, or even become regular columnists. My immediate reaction? “Hell, yes! Go for it!”

I had the privilege of volunteering at the most recent Killer Nashville conference, contributing by reviewing submissions, bringing authors’ work to life through live readings, and assisting the logistics team. It was a rewarding experience in every sense, but what struck me most was the event’s outstanding quality and the immense value it provided to its participants. So, when the opportunity arose to contribute to the magazine—an extension of the conference—I jumped in headfirst.

When I emerged from the pool of excitement, I asked myself, “What do you want to write about?” This reflection led me to the title of my potential column: Between Pen and Paper: Flaneuring Through a Writer’s Mind. Titles are vital; they serve as beacons from a lighthouse of purpose, guiding the writing ship through the tumultuous seas of creativity and storytelling.

Why Between Pen and Paper? Because I believe entire worlds exist in that space. There are foggy worlds of undiscovered desires, passions, and failures hidden in a writer’s mind. Mundane worlds of endless research and labyrinthine directories of folders within sub-folders, within sub-folders holding googol amount of Googled information. And then there are fantasy worlds, where pages transform into smiling green Benjamins, and bank accounts grow fat like grizzly bears before La Niña’s winter.

These are the fascinating worlds I want to explore, and I’d like to invite you to come along.

There are countless ways to explore a world: you can hop on a plane with a packed itinerary and check off every tourist hotspot, or you can stand by the side of the road with a thumb outstretched, waiting for the unpredictable. I’ve traveled the world both ways—and in some others—but my favorite is through flaneuring.

What is flaneuring? Flaneuring, or flânerie, was born in the literary circles of 19th-century Europe. A flâneur—a person who practices flaneuring—wanders the streets of a city, observing and reflecting on its urban landscape. Edgar Allan Poe introduced this concept to literature in 1840 with his short story “The Man of the Crowd.” Charles Baudelaire discussed Poe’s story in his “The Painter of Modern Life”, Victor Fournel dedicated a chapter of his book “Ce qu'On Voit dans les Rues de Paris” (What One Sees in the Streets of Paris) to “the art of flânerie”, Honore de Balzac described flaneuring so poetically as “the gastronomy of the eye” in his The Physiology of Marriage.

Inspired by this contemplative form of exploration, I propose we flaneur through the vast worlds of a writer’s mind. Let’s begin our journey where all stories originate—with inspiration.

Inspiration is a mysterious, almost sacred force. It ignites a writer’s unexplainable desire to tell stories. Suddenly, an event, a thought, or a fleeting moment pierces the thick skin of mundane reality and touches the soul of a writer, compelling us to create something meaningful.

As I wander through the inspirational world, I notice three distinct types of inspiration:

1. Inspiration in Everyday Life

Everyday life is full of untapped creativity. When I go grocery shopping, I’m not just buying food—I’m observing the world around me. I observe what people buy, how shoppers interact with each other, or how couples move through the aisles. To sharpen my focus, I sometimes wear muted earphones to amplify my visual senses. Conversely, in a café, I close my eyes sometimes to heighten my auditory awareness, letting the noise and rhythm of conversations spark ideas. These ordinary moments can inspire characters, dialogue, or the subtleties of a scene.

2. Inspiration from Personal Experiences

Personal experiences are a treasure trove for storytelling. At the end of the day, what we know the best is our lives. While not everything we write is autobiographical, our lives provide rich emotional material to draw upon. Moments of joy, heartbreak, or vulnerability can shape authentic characters and relatable narratives. Think about waiting for a life-altering diagnosis or experiencing the bittersweet ache of nostalgia—these emotions can become the foundation of an interesting story. Ultimately, our personal experiences, whether mundane or monumental, can allow us to explore universal human truths.

3. Inspiration by Nature

Nature offers boundless inspiration. When I’m going for a walk, doesn’t mean I want to write a hiking guide. Nature is full of parables, similes, and metaphors. The way rain reshapes deer hoofprints in mud might inspire a crucial clue in a detective story. The oppressive darkness of a moonless forest could set the tone for a psychological thriller. Even the smell of freshly turned soil might spark the perfect ending to a murder mystery. When we observe nature with a writer’s eye, we uncover stories waiting to be told.

These diverse sources of inspiration—everyday life, personal experiences, and nature—feed our creativity and provide the raw material for storytelling. They can ignite an entire novel, inspire a unique character quirk, or shape a single unforgettable moment in a story. Inspiration doesn’t always arrive fully formed; sometimes, it’s just a fragment—a fleeting image, a snippet of dialogue, or an emotion—that grows as we nurture it. If we keep our minds open, inspirations come constantly in our direction, so we should be prepared to welcome them and, if not used at the moment, have a way of storing them for later.

The word inspiration comes from the Latin inspirare, meaning “to breathe into.” And that’s exactly what inspiration does—it breathes life into our thoughts, transforming them into vivid, imaginative creations.

So, let’s embrace every inspiration we encounter, at every step, at every turn as we flaneur through the intricate worlds of the writer’s mind.

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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, 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 upcoming 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.