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Do writer's suffer from Sensory Overload
By Beckie Weinheimer   
Rated "PG" by the Author.
Last edited: Thursday, July 31, 2008
Posted: Thursday, July 31, 2008

Do all writer's suffer from Sensory overload and that drives us to spew some of it out in the form of writing?

Gum Chewers, Police and Some Library Books

I went on an adventure yesterday. I went to NYC. Now mind you, for me, that's only a half mile walk to the subway, and then a half hour subway ride. But I wasn't in the best of mental shape. I lost a good friend and brother in law unexpectedly last week and I haven't had a good night sleep since until the night before I went to NYC. Then I took a sleeping pill. It was tiny and blue but I slept and slept and when I woke up, well, my brain wasn't quite right. It was groggy and still half asleep. I was most of the way to the subway stop when I realized I had forgotten to bring my cell phone with me. Worse, I had forgotten to bring ear plugs.

Why would any sane person need earplugs just to commute from Queens to Manhattan?

Well I can't stand gum chewers. The sound of them popping their gum, chewing away with open mouths--like cows chewing on their cud is revolting, disgusting and down right hurts my ears. But you can't smoke on the subway so guess what people do---you guessed it. And when it happens that I am seated by a gum chewer (the odds are in my favor), I simply get out my ear plugs, put them in, close my eyes, because even the sight of them chewing insults me, and manage to endure the ride.

My nerves were already raw because of the death and funeral and seeing my adult nieces and nephew so distraught. And now no earplugs. So I nestled down in a far corner of the subway car, closed my eyes, burrowed my head and used my fingers for earplugs. I survived.

The streets of NYC were busy. They always are. But the humid, unmoving heat wave of air I had left in Queens had a slight breeze on fifty ninth and Lexington and so I began my walk. I had to go to the post office first, and then I could get back on the subway or walk the 16 blocks to the library where I had books on hold. Four books to be exact. I decided to walk. It was lovely out. The breeze made it perfect. I browsed store windows and stopped when I found a really cool trendy shoe store with beautiful hot pink dress shoes, with a strap. A strap! Why a strap. The problem is that I like to dress like a teen, or someone much younger than my fifty years, but my feet are fifty years old. I wear orthodic inserts and I have to find shoes with straps to keep the orthodics in place as I walk. Yippee. They fit and were on clearance. So I bought the 20 dollar bargain and almost skipped on forward the library, so happy I was with my thrifty find. I was almost to the library when I found a funky paper supply store. Bright pink, purple and yellow paper, labels and 9 X 11 mailers. Cool. I could jazz up all the stuff I have to send out. They even had purple glitter pens?. I like to sign CONVERTING KATE in purple glitter. Yeah, I'm a kid at heart. Can I just tell you back in the stone ages when I was in school we did NOT have GLITTER pens? I love them. They make my words, well sparkle!

So I now had bright pink shoes, bright pink mailers and purple sparkle pens and I was on my way to the library where I had four books on hold. I was so excited to get these books. One was a book to read for a book group I signed up for on GOOD READS, which by the way is a fun site for readers and writers. I'll probably post this blog on my profile page there. I've met very cool people who like the same books I do and we talk about them. Anyway I have not been able to join in on the discussions of the Victorian Lit group because I didn't have the book they are reading. But the book for the group was sitting only minutes ahead at the library.

I got to the library at five. They close at six. I looked everywhere for my books on hold. Finally I went to the information desk. Is this the Donn ell Library?

"No."

Duh. I have spoken at the Donnell Library. The information man told me it's on Fifth between 52 and 53rd. I was on fifth and 42. It was now five thirty. Maybe the little blue pill was still at work muddling my mind? A half hour to go eleven and a half blocks. I could make it. I could. I thanked the information man and scurried out, well scurried once I got through the bag check. Yes, they had to check out my pink shoes and my bright office supplies and my bright pink purse. Okay I was in a bright mood.

Once on the street, I began dodging around people trying to time the lights on each corner. Have you ever been on Fifth Avenue in the 50 streets at five thirty pm on a week day? Of course you have. Everyone in the world has. OR it seemed to me that everyone in the entire world was there yesterday, blocking my way, keeping me from the library.

Finally I saw a policeman at the inner edge of the crowd. No one was around him. I jumped in right behind him and followed him for two blocks. He was moving fast and I could move fast in his shadow. Finally he turned around, we almost bumped into each other, and both moved quickly out of each other's way.

"Is something the matter?" He asked.

When I realized he wasn't going to arrest me from stocking him I said, "Um well, I'm following you because I'm in a hurry and you seem to be able to make it quickly through these crowds."

He walked companionably beside me at the same fast clip, and began to talk. "What just happened there?" he asked me

I was confused. What did he mean.? Would I have understand had I not taken the tiny blue pill?

I ventured a guess. "I was following you?"

"I mean why didn't we bump into each other. We both made the effort not to bump into each other, right?"

"Um, right?"

"Life is so hard," said like he was confiding his soul, as we clipped on down the busy street. "I try so hard to be nice, but it's so hard to be nice and to let people know you want to be nice."
"Rough day?" I ask.

"Yes." He sighed.

"Well you have been nice to me and it's cheered up my day." I offer.

"Really?"

Gosh, this guy was easy. "Yes. You really did. You know what I think?"

"What?" he asked like I had the wisdom of Buddha or something

.

"I figure all we can do is be nice to the people we do come in contact with, and hope that makes them be nicer with others and hope that is might spread. The niceness I mean."

"I like that idea."

"Can I tell you something?" I ask and then don't wait for an answer. "I think you might be too hard on yourself, I tell him. I can tell you are a nice human being.

Really? You can tell?

"I can tell". I said it with authority. Like my day job was to go around and decide who's nice and who's not.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome." I smiled back to him.

We walked four more blocks together and then he stopped at the light and said, "I hope you make it to where ever you are trying to get to."

"Thank you. Remember you are making a difference."

He smiled and waved.

Okay I have this really opinionated idea about military, police officers and security people. I think most go into these fields for the glory of power and control and sadly, in my opinion a much smaller, group enter these same careers with true altruistic feelings. They actually want to make the world a safer, nicer place. I had just met one such man.

So I scurried on. I got to the place where the library was supposed to be. No library. I ran to the corner. Another police officer. They are everywhere, and I think it makes our city really safe and it's also a great way to get directions. Only this officer didn't know where the library was. So I ran on, I saw a man outside one of the most posh of posh Men's stores on Fifth Avenue. In desperation, even though his nice suit cost more than a million books so why would he know where the measly little library was that loaned out free books? I mean if he read books he probably buys them, right? But still I asked, "By any small chance do you know where the Donnell Library is?"

He did. He knew exactly and he gave me great directions and even gave me the time on his watch that probably cost more than my husband's car. They directions I had previously given according to Mr. Posh were one block off. I ran, dodging through the crowds. His watch said six minutes to six. I had six minutes to make one and a half blocks. I could do it. I knew I could. I ran, I dodged. I scurried through almost red lights at cross walks. I got to the library just as the security guard was in the act of locking the door. "Help, please, let me in ,"I begged tapping on the glass door he was locking.

"Sorry Mam."

"But I've been walking two hours (okay and a bit of shopping) to get here. Please. Please. Please." I heard my voice. I was begging. And loudly, on a street in NYC.

"I can't mam. Sorry," he said as he unlocked the door to let some other lucky library patrons out.

"I'll just be a second I said through the crack as he was relocking the door. "My books are on hold. People are still in there. You could let me in. You could if you wanted to".

"Sorry." His voice was firm. And something else I heard in it. Could the sound be enjoyment? Did I actually hear enjoyment? I am quite sure I did.

I stood watching him for five whole minutes.

The guy who was cooking gyros out on the street came over to me. "What he do to you?" he asked in broken English. He had his big metal spatula in his hand, and looked like Don Quixote who was going to fight for my honor.

"He won't let me get my books." I said. My voice sounded like a sad little girl who was to get a prize at the end of her journey and didn't.

"Bad man," he said to me. He shook his head and then walked back to his cart letting the spatula dangle uselessly from the bottom of his arm.

I stood there. So sad. So close. But so far. I didn't want to accept defeat. I wanted my damn books. I was in denial.

Now if this were fiction, I would let the good guy win. Me, I would get my books. And the bad guy--The security guard, would lose. His boss would come, she would say, this is Beckie Weinheimer. She volunteers her time at NYC libraries, she can come in. We will give her, her books.

But this is not fiction. This is a blog. The bad guy won. As I walked away I thought, well he's certainly fits the criteria for one of my law enforcement stereotypes. I'd seen both ends of the spectrum in less than a half hour.

Dejected, tired and weary, I got on the subway. It was packed like sardines. No room to sit, hardly room to hold on to the hand grip bar above. The smell of body odor was overwhelming. The AC was not working and I had just entered Dante's Hell. And of course to make it complete where was I standing? You guessed it. Right next to a very loud gum chewer. My hands were full of bags I had to stand and use one hand to hold the bags the other to hold on to the rail. My new pink shoes were getting crushed. No plugging my ears with my fingers this time. This last episode in my semi drugged day was taking the last ounces of sanity and reasonability left in me. Chomp chomp chomp, like a hateful drummer, beating away before they guillotined me for crimes against humanity.

And then the subway unexpectedly lurched to a full stop. We all jostled and bumped and looked at each other like, what the?

And then the voice. The voice from the driver you never see. "Please everyone exit. Our train is leaking water. Wait for the next train."

So like sheep following the leader, we got off. I got away from the gum chewer in the exodus. Praise Allah. (No I am not Muslim but after September 11th I started saying this just to remind people that we can believe in different things and not be suicide bombers). And without the gum chewer chomping incessantly in my ear, I stood watching a woman I had admired on the train. It was obvious gum chewing didn't bother her. It was obvious crowds of people and foul body odor didn't affect her either. She had a book in her hands, standing, reading, as if she and the book were alone in the world. She walked off the train, reading, she stood in the line we all made formed while waiting for the next subway train, reading. I think if the subway station had suddenly caught on fire I would have had to nudge her, "Hello, sorry to bother you and all, but your book is about to burn, you are about to burn." She had the best concentration. She was certainly a reader. But was she a writer?

I had my doubts. I have about zero concentration, unless I am alone in a room with no nose. Otherwise I tend to see and smell and hear everything. So many other writers I talk to, are like this too. They have to move away from the popcorn cruncher in the movie, so they can even hear the movie, one writer, is so stimulated by the sensory detail around him, he wears a knit cap over his eyes and ears, and types blindfolded so he cannot see anything but the world he is creating. It makes sense that people who write see and feel and hear things, things maybe other people don't. I know for me, if I didn't write, all the sensory input I take in daily would drive me crazy. Writing is a way to release the overload.

So are you a writer? What guidelines do you have to survive by when you write? What bothers you when you out in public?

And do you love books like they were your comforter, or special stuffed animal?

I do. I have this fantasy every time I am in a library. Let the door lock. Leave me several bushels of apples. Make sure the bathrooms and water fountain are working. And then just leave me there in lock up for a year or two with the lovely, dear sweet enchanting books that have taken me places I'll never go, and told me things I would have never thought.

I love books. I love it that I have written a book. I want to write more. But more than that I want to read more.

Here's to hoping I get my books on Saturday and actually get to the library before it closes. Here's hoping I don't see a certain security guard. I might have four books in my arms. I wouldn't trust me not to bang them over his little arrogant head.

Got a favorite writer experience about sensory overload? I'd love to hear about it?

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