Burned Notebooks: A New Kind of Therapy

Chris Shippey
Freshman, University of Northern Colorado

For many people, the purpose of journaling is a sort of catharsis. With pen on paper, they are able to work through problems and issues. These problems are overcome simply by allowing time to process these tribulations enough to form sentences about them. I too use writing for this purpose. However, I often do not allow writing to be the last step in my emotional eradication.

I was seventeen the first time I held a match to a completed page, but lighting the fire is the last step. Before a notebook can be burned, it must first be filled; this isn't an easy task. A Mead composition notebook contains one hundred sheets--or two hundred pages. The goal in essence is to write. As each word flows onto the paper through the pen, some event must set the precedent; be it long narrations of break-ups or pained descriptions of breakdowns, copious amounts of material must pave the way--the emotionally passive life cannot be translated onto paper. However, for those who can complete the task, the reward comes when the back cover is closed. It is then that the notebook can smolder, and, in the smoke of those burning college-ruled pages, my writing finds its purpose.

It has been far too long since I have burned a notebook. How long have I been filling new pages, front and back, waiting to turn them into ash? When was the last time I coughed as I looked over my flaming longhand? Months, years even, have passed since I have filled a last page, read through my ramblings one last time, and lit a match. Writing has long been my release, my form of purging. With pen in hand-- I only use pen--I have often attended my solitary therapy sessions. If writing is my release, then burning my writing is my closure. There is something comforting in seeing a tattered notebook turn to dust and waft away in the wind, confirming that everything is temporary, even words written in ink.

After months of writing, I have never been able to close a full notebook and burn it in the same day; I must first re-read everything that I have written. With painstaking attention and analysis, I examine every word. Over a number of days, I study the record of my life. Each word, sentence, paragraph, and passage recalls certain memories and places me in a specific mindset. I experience and feel every moment and emotion again. Like a flood, all the things that have long been forgotten come rushing back. Some pages are tearstained. I read some passages twice, while others, written in drunken stupors, cannot be read at all. Some, though written in perfect script, lack punctuation and fail to make sense; these irrational passages have been my attempts at capturing certain altered states of consciousness. Once I have allowed time for every detail to immerse itself into my consciousness, I reach for a book of matches.

In the street, with the notebook placed open, I strike a match and lift one page. A slight smell of sulfur rises as I carry the small flame onto one corner of the single page. I hold this page above the rest until the flame is close enough to my hand to burn. When most of the single page has turned to ash, I let the remainder drop and transfer the flame to the other pages. The blaze catches quickly. Soon the pages begin to curl, each one waiting its turn to be consumed and processed into smoke and ash. I sit close to the fire, allowing the smoke, my burned words, to soak into my clothes and hair. As the fire reaches the front and back covers, the flames dance excitedly high into the air; soon they will have nothing else to burn. The smoke, billowing at first, begins a slow waltz as it rises higher above the notebook. With most of the pages gone, the covers burn brighter than their contents. Slowly the flame dies, and the ash is swept away by the wind, leaving only a rough rectangle of scorched pavement.

After spending countless hours, innumerable days, and endless nights filling a notebook, there is a certain level of closure that can only be reached by taking a match to the completed pages. I use writing as a way to deal with my problems. By writing, my problems become tangible, understandable. Seeing a filled notebook, I can know that my problems are no longer a part of me, but simply words on paper.

By burning these words, my problems, pains, and tribulations are alleviated and destroyed, forgotten.

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