Once upon a time (okay, 2009) in a land far away (Andrew, Alberta) a not-so-young would-be author sat down in her parlour and began writing a book. She had long harboured the desire to be published. And over the years she had, in various small ways, secured a byline and publishing credits.

Putting quill to parchment had begun in earnest in 2002 when she adopted the catchy ?From Where I Sit? as the title of her column and as a disclaimer to all who would read it. The content was simply one maiden’s take on life. It first appeared in a small weekly scroll and was well-received by all those who read it.

But when pieces of gold were not forthcoming in a timely and agreed upon way, the author resorted to a stinging email to the despot editor, questioning his word and his worth. Within days, coin appeared at her bank. But by then the relationship had soured and was over.

Soon the maiden negotiated a deal with a biweekly scroll and is to this day a fixture there. Half-hearted attempts at self-syndication met with discouraging results. Pitiful budgets and a glut of those who would write for nothing more than a byline were powerful foes.

By 2004, a prince suggested contacting Athabasca University’s online publication. Thanks to a fairy godmother named Tamra, the maiden’s words soon began appearing weekly and continue to this day. Other writing (profiles and some humour) appeared in other publications, some of which are now defunct.

She had arrived?but not really, because her bigger dream, to pen a book, had never died. Ideas were considered and dismissed. Feeble attempts were mounted in pursuit of this mighty goal.

But the enemies were many. The trio of Insecurity, Fear, and Who-the-Hell-Do-You-Think-You-Are were especially fearsome. Lurking near the drawbridge was Internal Critic. For ages it seemed that Discipline had abandoned her, and for a while the maiden faced the dreaded possibility she was of the kind who much prefer to have written than to actually write.

However, soon rumours from neighbouring kingdoms reached her, telling of the success of plucky late bloomers, and she took inspiration. She knew in her heart that she was decades past being a child prodigy, but maybe it wasn’t too late. Maybe It’s now or never, she told herself. Maybe It’s s*&t or get off the throne.

And so it came to pass that, suddenly encouraged, the maiden threw herself into her work. She used character sketches and plotting and decades of reading experience to write her first book: a tale of love between a young woman and man. It would be known as Lucky Dog.

And she felt incredibly blessed. So many years of dreaming but not doing had resulted in the entire publishing kingdom’s being turned on its head. By waiting, she had avoided the agony of queries, agents, publishers, and rejection. She instead had relied on the support of family and the generosity of a mentor princess named Sandra. She wrote the best first book she could and handed it to the royalty at Smashwords to usher into the world.

When we last saw this intrepid maiden, she was hard at work on her next tale and muttering something about all being right with the world. Dare say she just may live happily ever after, from where I sit.