There is very little on the Internet or in libraries as to why a writer writes, at least from a psychological standpoint.

Never one to be called non analytical, I went deep into my own psyche just to find out why it was so important that I write. I wrote when I was in my twenties (now in my fifties). This was before the Internet and I was just getting used to electric typewriters. I knew I would write the next great American novel. How I would do it, or who would see it was another story. I just knew I had to write.

I knew of publishers, I had seen books on writing in the library with names and addresses of agents. At that time, they seemed like alien beings to me. Why would they ever want to see my writing with so many others out there who had a far better handle on the English language. I was dyslexic growing up, still am to a certain degree, and I could barely read in my twenties. In fact (I'm ashamed to say), I read my first book at age twenty-seven.

So why did I feel compelled to write? There are many theories why a person writes and they are not all the same. I wrote, not even considering the fact that I would ever gain fame or fortune from it. It was, and sometimes still is, my escape from the maddening crowd. As an adult, I am humble enough that maybe others I know are writing to escape me and my own madness (who is also escaping them). The ego dwindles as we get older and some bitter-sweet humor manifests. It is not only they who drive us mad but I who drive them mad as well. I would have never thought it. Sweet gentle sensitive me.

As the years went by (PI or pre-internet), I discovered that writing was the only thing I could do well and naturally. That was both a blessing and a curse in that institutions of higher learning insist we must have something to fall back on. I looked at my semi-skills in sales as something I had to do, and my writing was what I fell back on. For years I insisted I was a writer, though nothing was published, while others insisted I was not. Occasionally, I would get a stroke of genius (as they call it) as so many writers do, and write an essay or article that blew people away. But they were few and far between.

I grew up in Mississippi, not far from a struggling attorney named John Grisham. He was not a bad attorney, he simply did not enjoy it, and when someone does not enjoy a job, chances are they will not do their best in it. John loved to write and he wrote well. He did so long before the public ever even heard his name. Unfortunately for John, for many years, he was one of the few who knew he was a great writer. He was virtually starving in his law practice. He stopped it and started a project, a book titled The Firm. He had a very hard time getting it published so self-published five hundred copies (I'm told) and sold them out of the trunk of his car. He simply drove around selling The Firm (his new job). He didn't make much money but he loved it. Of course the rest is history.

About this time I discovered I could write cartoons, conceive the concept, write the captions, but my drawing skills left a lot to be desired. I continued to write them, in fact to date over 6000 of them. Word got out that I could do this and illustrators began asking me if they could render them and if we sold them collect half the fee. It was a perfect match. Londons Times Cartoons was born and eventually became the largest private inventory of cartoons on the Internet with top ratings from Alexa and Netcraft.

I say this not for bragging rights, but for the fact that if a writer does not write, he/she becomes disoriented, not centered. The writer feels most comfortable sitting down writing, whether it be pen and ink or cyber-technology.

In the mid-1990's I went home to take care of an ailing mother. I developed writer's block. I was miserable (of course for the fact that I was about to lose my mother), but also that I could not write. My plan was, while caring for her, I would sit at the typewriter (I did not have a computer then), and simply write my feelings, sort of as a purging therapy. For four years not a word was typed. I watched tv. I took Mom to her doctors appointments and to the hospital. I was mentally, physically, and spiritually ill. Oddly enough, I pinpointed the whole feeling to the stress of caring for my mom. And of course a majority of that was it, but not all of it. I became a caretaker and my whole mission was to take care of her needs. That is not even what she wanted or needed. We finally buried my mother which was the saddest day of my life.

A few weeks later I received a call from Newburyport, MA from a friend I'd been to college with. She and her husband were inviting me for a long weekend to relax. I decided to go. They told me I looked like a mess. I knew it, and felt ashamed.

There was a new Jack Nicholson movie out As Good As It Gets in which he played a dried up crusty author with writer's block and when his gay neighbor, Greg Kinnear was mugged, Nicholson was forced to care for his rather effeminate dog (Nicholson was also homophobic in the film). At first he despised the idea. As time went by, he grew to love the dog, as all the dog offered was unconditional love.

Nicholson had been in love with a waitress at his local hangout named Helen Hunt who hated him like everyone else.

As time went by, the dog had its magic effect on Nicholson. He became a good guy. He funded medical attention for Helen Hunt's son and they fell in love. He dressed better. He began to write. He brought flowers to his better half. It was a wonderful movie and won the Academy Award as I suspected it would.

Then I went home.

I volunteered at the local university Equestrian Center to feed the horses and clean out the barns. I grew to know and love horses. One Saturday, a tornado hovered over our town and the storm was terrible. A pack of three dogs showed up at the barn for shelter. One dog, Thor who looked just like Benji, was in terrible shape. He was one big mat of fur and had been beaten by someone or hit by a vehicle. A vet friend of mine nursed him back to health under the condition I would adopt him. I did, but did not want to. I could barely take care of myself.

That was over a decade ago and Thor has been my shadow ever since. Everyone in town knows Thor even if they don't know me. He has brought happiness to so many. The vet believes he is somewhere around 19 years old. This does not surprise me because he is on the b.a.r.f. Diet (Bones And Raw Food); he does not touch dog food.

But the big magic is how my writing skills finally returned and Londons Times Cartoons was born. How it grew as big as it did is beyond me. It just did. The more I cared for Thor the more creative I became. I even opened e-shops and fell in love with a wonderful woman. My businesses do well and I continue to write as I look at my old tired, beautiful mixed breed dog, Thor, who changed my life.

I believe the irony of it all is that when I saw As Good As It Gets, I thought to myself How touching, but anyone who is a writer knows nothing like that could happen in real life. Little did I know it was a preview of what was about to happen to me...and is still happening.

The moral: Never underestimate the power of unconditional love, especially from a stray animal. All animals are precious but a stray is so grateful to be salvaged he/she will do just about anything for you in return only for food and shelter. That unconditional love changes us and the way we treat people and expect to be treated.

Adopt one today and watch your quality of life change (whether you believe it or not).

Rick London
http://www.internet2yourdoor.com