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Lindsay Wincherauk: One of a Kind!
When you Google "Lindsay Wincherauk" the only "Lindsay Wincherauk" that comes up is "Lindsay Wincherauk"
DISCLAIMER:
Everything on this site is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, events and incidents are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Everything on this site is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, events and incidents are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
welcome message
When the pandemic became full-blown in March 2020, I had been working on building a good life for myself, and my loved ones; for almost 60 years. I had worked for a company for nearly 15 years. I played a significant role in saving the company during the economic collapse of 2008. An undeniable fact. My efforts didn’t matter; the people I worked for, placed my career on the shelf at the first opportunity they had, during a once-in-a-century pandemic, leaving me swimming in a vat of uncertainty.
During my first 60 years on this rock, I had been through many deaths and traumas; including watching my mother die twice, watching my father die; and then watching him die a second time, figuratively—as he was preparing to welcome me into his family with open arms—these are long stories—stories leading me to the discovery I had been born in a place where demon seeds were born. Where women deemed unfit for motherhood, gave birth, and then had their babies sold or adopted by farm families, if the babies survived. Religion sanctioned these shameful places.
To this date, I still don’t know who my birth father is?
My life had been a lie and a dark family secret, with me traipsing through the years unknowingly, until I found out, when I was 43, my parents, I watched die, were not my birth parents. This sent me whirling into my past to understand who I am and to cobble the missing pieces of my life together.
I’m lucky. Fabulous friends had blessed me with their support up to that point, which held me together and helped me avoid finding and falling off a proverbial cliff.
During my first 60 years on this rock, I had been through many deaths and traumas; including watching my mother die twice, watching my father die; and then watching him die a second time, figuratively—as he was preparing to welcome me into his family with open arms—these are long stories—stories leading me to the discovery I had been born in a place where demon seeds were born. Where women deemed unfit for motherhood, gave birth, and then had their babies sold or adopted by farm families, if the babies survived. Religion sanctioned these shameful places.
To this date, I still don’t know who my birth father is?
My life had been a lie and a dark family secret, with me traipsing through the years unknowingly, until I found out, when I was 43, my parents, I watched die, were not my birth parents. This sent me whirling into my past to understand who I am and to cobble the missing pieces of my life together.
I’m lucky. Fabulous friends had blessed me with their support up to that point, which held me together and helped me avoid finding and falling off a proverbial cliff.
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I am also lucky because my scrambled upbringing gifted me with one of the greatest gifts anyone can receive: extraordinary stories to share.
Stories about perseverance, survival, hope, and the fight to never give up, regardless of the odds. |
In January 2018, I survived a stroke. Foolishly, I never missed a day of work afterward.
I am currently pitching 18 manuscripts, running the gamut from memoir to poetry to fantasy/adventure.
I am also working on over 100 other writing projects, and publishers and authors have asked me to share my thoughts on their books.
At the start of 2020, starting with the subtraction of my career and the confusion and uncertainty that came with trying to understand why a company would dispose of someone who had enriched it, someone who was fiercely loyal, without one iota of concern for the emotional and financial toll it would inflict on a good man. As the year’s uncertainty progressed, more events assaulted me, changing my life, affecting my mental health, and ultimately shaping how I viewed humanity and what lens I looked through when determining what is right or wrong.
Writing and creating things are my therapy. It helps me make sense of my feelings and who I want to become.
I wrote and wrote, with nary a concern about where each writing would fit into the grand scheme of my writing goals.
I wrote what I saw each day, the absurdities of living, how I felt, the things I didn’t like, and how I wanted to be as a human.
I wrote a psychological thriller, The Stairs, in less than five weeks, and it’s fabulous.
I even wrote my deepest, darkest thoughts—we must if we want to remain whole.
Am I angry with the people who put me on the shelf?
No.
They are who they are.
It is upsetting they stopped seeing me as human—and vowed to destroy me financially and emotionally. Including, the one who had pretended to be a friend.
I must thank them for that; I have an inkling they are the inspiration behind The Stairs.
There is nothing more to say. They are not worth another breath.
Within a month, starting in late September (2020), I had life-saving surgery, and one of my dearest friends, Scotty, a kindred spirit, died suddenly. And I had to defend my integrity, by standing up to those who had disposed of me as they looked for anything they could use to prove I deserved what they had done. It sickens me. The legal system allowed this to happen. I liken it to being violated repeatedly.
I had done everything ever asked of me—and now I was being subjected to being called a ‘failed writer’ by people I suspect barely read.
I was spiralling through fear, depression, and anxiety. I had fallen into a slough, and no matter how hard I struggled, I couldn’t find a way to return to the surface to breathe.
I kept writing. I couldn’t stop.
I needed to keep scratching, clawing, typing, and revising, to put a body of work into the world, expressing myself up to this point in life.
I need to find a way to slay the monsters—including the legal system, that allowed other monsters to almost destroy my life and distract me from my path forward.
I’m not concerned about crafting stories people will like; I am simply putting something out that’s honest, vulnerable, and true to who I want to become and where I am in my life. Stories opening a secret passageway into my soul.
The monsters almost destroyed me. My time with them is coming to fruition—three years after they had tossed me aside like trash. I did everything asked of me. What, this at times, excrutiating lesson has taught me: Monsters will be nothing more than what they are.
Welcome + Love,
Lindsay
2 March 2023
I am currently pitching 18 manuscripts, running the gamut from memoir to poetry to fantasy/adventure.
I am also working on over 100 other writing projects, and publishers and authors have asked me to share my thoughts on their books.
At the start of 2020, starting with the subtraction of my career and the confusion and uncertainty that came with trying to understand why a company would dispose of someone who had enriched it, someone who was fiercely loyal, without one iota of concern for the emotional and financial toll it would inflict on a good man. As the year’s uncertainty progressed, more events assaulted me, changing my life, affecting my mental health, and ultimately shaping how I viewed humanity and what lens I looked through when determining what is right or wrong.
Writing and creating things are my therapy. It helps me make sense of my feelings and who I want to become.
I wrote and wrote, with nary a concern about where each writing would fit into the grand scheme of my writing goals.
I wrote what I saw each day, the absurdities of living, how I felt, the things I didn’t like, and how I wanted to be as a human.
I wrote a psychological thriller, The Stairs, in less than five weeks, and it’s fabulous.
I even wrote my deepest, darkest thoughts—we must if we want to remain whole.
Am I angry with the people who put me on the shelf?
No.
They are who they are.
It is upsetting they stopped seeing me as human—and vowed to destroy me financially and emotionally. Including, the one who had pretended to be a friend.
I must thank them for that; I have an inkling they are the inspiration behind The Stairs.
There is nothing more to say. They are not worth another breath.
Within a month, starting in late September (2020), I had life-saving surgery, and one of my dearest friends, Scotty, a kindred spirit, died suddenly. And I had to defend my integrity, by standing up to those who had disposed of me as they looked for anything they could use to prove I deserved what they had done. It sickens me. The legal system allowed this to happen. I liken it to being violated repeatedly.
I had done everything ever asked of me—and now I was being subjected to being called a ‘failed writer’ by people I suspect barely read.
I was spiralling through fear, depression, and anxiety. I had fallen into a slough, and no matter how hard I struggled, I couldn’t find a way to return to the surface to breathe.
I kept writing. I couldn’t stop.
I needed to keep scratching, clawing, typing, and revising, to put a body of work into the world, expressing myself up to this point in life.
I need to find a way to slay the monsters—including the legal system, that allowed other monsters to almost destroy my life and distract me from my path forward.
I’m not concerned about crafting stories people will like; I am simply putting something out that’s honest, vulnerable, and true to who I want to become and where I am in my life. Stories opening a secret passageway into my soul.
The monsters almost destroyed me. My time with them is coming to fruition—three years after they had tossed me aside like trash. I did everything asked of me. What, this at times, excrutiating lesson has taught me: Monsters will be nothing more than what they are.
Welcome + Love,
Lindsay
2 March 2023
DISCLAIMER:
The preceding welcoming message and everything on this website is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, events and incidents are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Portions of the previous fictitious text have been removed because I fear for my well-being and safety, and the well-being and safety of my family.
For monsters, life is nothing more than an extension of entitlement.
For those who monsters willfully inflict catastrophic pain upon, it is a matter of life or death.
The preceding welcoming message and everything on this website is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, events and incidents are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Portions of the previous fictitious text have been removed because I fear for my well-being and safety, and the well-being and safety of my family.
For monsters, life is nothing more than an extension of entitlement.
For those who monsters willfully inflict catastrophic pain upon, it is a matter of life or death.
The Reference Letter From a Former Employer
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8,900 Followers
50K Followers (One Post 45-Million Views)
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Not only is this memoir rife with family drama. But it is also the only memoir with a motorcycle crash in Jamaica, an attempted coup in Panama involving Manuel Noriega, a brush with the Dalai Lama in a Vancouver food court, eating breakfast with The Thing from the Fantastic For, and a two-on-two basketball game with Fox Mulder.
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Putting predatory labour agencies out of business one at a time.
Starting with ABCDEF.GHIJKLMNOPQRS...
Starting with ABCDEF.GHIJKLMNOPQRS...
Lindsay Wincherauk the Cat
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Lindsay Wincherauk the Sardine
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Lindsay Wincherauk the Cowboy
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Subject to be edited, without notice. How could I possibly "NOTICE" you? How?
Carving out a writing career one word at a time!
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8,900 Followers
50K Followers (One Post 45-Million Views)
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