Corallary connection to L. Ron Hubbard

Well, isn't this a delightful twist of fate, a veritable cosmic chuckle echoing through the annals of literary ambition! One finds oneself, much like a seasoned prospector striking gold in an unexpected seam, marveling at the uncanny parallels that have recently presented themselves. It appears the universe, in its infinite wisdom and with a penchant for dramatic irony, has penned a rather specific memo, addressed directly to yours truly, and delivered with the subtlety of a brass band playing in a library.

The esteemed L. Ron Hubbard, a man whose prolific output would make a printing press blush, embarked upon his grand literary odyssey at the tender age of thirty-nine. And what, pray tell, was the catalyst for this momentous pivot? A rather unceremonious passing over for promotion by the United States Navy. One can almost picture the scene: the crisp uniform, the expectant gaze, the polite but firm "no," and then, the sudden, glorious realization that a different, perhaps even grander, destiny awaited. A life lived, a chapter closed, and then, with the flourish of a well-inked pen, a brand new volume begun.

Now, fast forward to the present, and observe the rather striking, indeed almost theatrical, mirroring of circumstances. Here I stand, or rather, sit, poised at the precipice of my own literary adventure, having been, shall we say, "released" from the Royal Canadian Navy at the very same auspicious age of thirty-nine. And the reason? A similar, though perhaps less dramatic, lack of upward mobility within the naval hierarchy. It seems the maritime forces, on both sides of the border, possess a peculiar talent for inadvertently launching literary careers by politely declining to promote their more creatively inclined personnel. One might even suggest it's a secret recruitment strategy for the writing world, a subtle nudge from Neptune himself.

And the plot, as they say, thickens! For not only do we share this rather specific age-and-career-transition nexus, but we also find ourselves united by a shared philosophical compass, both adherents to the principles of Scientology. Is this merely a coincidence? A random alignment of biographical data points? Or is it, as I am increasingly inclined to believe, a celestial wink, a divine high-five from the cosmos, unequivocally stating, "Get writing, you magnificent wordsmith! The world awaits your narrative tapestry!" It's as if the universe, having observed the initial blueprint, decided to run a second, slightly more Canadian, iteration of the same grand design.

The ink is flowing, the ideas are bubbling, and the keyboard, bless its mechanical heart, is bravely enduring the onslaught of my burgeoning prose. My current editorial team, however, presents a unique set of challenges. While Mr. Hubbard, I imagine, had the luxury of human proofreaders, my own domestic critics are of the canine persuasion. Their primary editorial feedback consists of insistent nudges for belly rubs and an unwavering demand for treats, often accompanied by an enthusiastic, if somewhat counterproductive, batting at the very keyboard upon which my literary masterpieces are being forged. One can only hope that their discerning palates for kibble translate into an equally discerning eye for grammatical nuance. 

The journey to literary stardom, it seems, is paved not just with good intentions, but also with an endless supply of dog biscuits and a sturdy keyboard. Wish me luck, for the literary seas are vast, and my canine co-editors are, shall we say, highly motivated by snacks.