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Sing
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You are not the sum of your struggles. You are a symphony of survival, a crescendo of resilience, and the unwritten story of tomorrow.
- Lindsay Wincherauk
- Lindsay Wincherauk
↓The Big Days↓
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There comes a point in life (maybe an age) where if we are not spending most of our time cultivating our passions and chasing our dreams—eventually, you'll become nothing more than small talk.
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CONVERGENCE
By Lindsay Wincherauk
People imagine job loss as a pause; at sixty-five, it’s a collision.
When a sixty-five-year-old is terminated, the job loss is only the spark.
What follows is convergence.
Bills don’t wait.
Rent doesn’t care about timing.
Grief doesn’t pause for paperwork.
Death arrives from one direction.
Debt from another.
Silence from institutions meant to protect.
Promises stall. Trust funds hover.
Survival becomes arithmetic, recalculated hourly.
This is the person you fired.
People imagine job loss as a pause—time to regroup, update a résumé, “take a breath.”
That fantasy belongs to people with margins.
At sixty-five, there are none.
While everything collides, life keeps happening at full speed.
A chosen family waits in another country as a grandmother is cremated—cart after cart rolling bodies into a furnace—and there is nothing I can do to help except endure.
No money to send. No flight to book.
Only words, emojis, and the weight of helpless presence.
Stress isn’t one thing.
It’s the convergence of all things—arriving at once, with no off-ramp.
The body reacts before the mind can negotiate.
Sleep fractures. Appetite becomes optional.
Empathy turns into guilt when it costs money.
Even kindness feels unaffordable.
This isn’t about a corporation anymore.
It’s about what happens when systems remove support without considering momentum—when a single decision detonates inside a life already carrying grief, age, and responsibility.
We like clean stories.
Clear villains. Clear recoveries.
Real life is messier.
Convergence is quiet.
Invisible.
And by the time anyone notices, the damage has already compounded.
This is what stress looks like when everything arrives at once—and nothing stops.
How quickly does compassion decay when survival becomes inconvenient?
Contact:
Lindsay Wincherauk
[email protected]
778.329.3820
By Lindsay Wincherauk
People imagine job loss as a pause; at sixty-five, it’s a collision.
When a sixty-five-year-old is terminated, the job loss is only the spark.
What follows is convergence.
Bills don’t wait.
Rent doesn’t care about timing.
Grief doesn’t pause for paperwork.
Death arrives from one direction.
Debt from another.
Silence from institutions meant to protect.
Promises stall. Trust funds hover.
Survival becomes arithmetic, recalculated hourly.
This is the person you fired.
People imagine job loss as a pause—time to regroup, update a résumé, “take a breath.”
That fantasy belongs to people with margins.
At sixty-five, there are none.
While everything collides, life keeps happening at full speed.
A chosen family waits in another country as a grandmother is cremated—cart after cart rolling bodies into a furnace—and there is nothing I can do to help except endure.
No money to send. No flight to book.
Only words, emojis, and the weight of helpless presence.
Stress isn’t one thing.
It’s the convergence of all things—arriving at once, with no off-ramp.
The body reacts before the mind can negotiate.
Sleep fractures. Appetite becomes optional.
Empathy turns into guilt when it costs money.
Even kindness feels unaffordable.
This isn’t about a corporation anymore.
It’s about what happens when systems remove support without considering momentum—when a single decision detonates inside a life already carrying grief, age, and responsibility.
We like clean stories.
Clear villains. Clear recoveries.
Real life is messier.
Convergence is quiet.
Invisible.
And by the time anyone notices, the damage has already compounded.
This is what stress looks like when everything arrives at once—and nothing stops.
How quickly does compassion decay when survival becomes inconvenient?
Contact:
Lindsay Wincherauk
[email protected]
778.329.3820
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Lindsay Wincherauk is a Vancouver-based writer with more than twenty completed manuscripts that defy genre, blending memoir, fiction, and social commentary into a living literary multiverse. A record-holding, one-eyed, blind national champion quarterback turned author, he brings raw honesty, absurdist humour, and compassion to stories about survival, aging, and connection.
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- The Barista (Literary Fiction / Social Commentary)
- Abe (Psychological Thriller / AI Identity Exploration)
- Glue! (Genre-Defying Meta Memoir)
- Humans’ Bistro (Psychological Thriller)
- The Stairs (Psychological Thriller)
- Sparkly Pingle Ball: Season 1 (Absurdist Fiction / Dark Humour / Satirical Episodic Narrative)
- Life is a Short Story (deepens your meta-memoir lane)
- A 60-Year-Old Man Running in Flip Flops (Hybrid Memoir / Story Collection (Creative Nonfiction + Absurdist Fiction + Social Commentary)
- Prose (Literary Fiction / Metafiction / Genre-Bending Satire
- I Think I Might Be Charlie Kaufman (Genre-Bending Memoir / Meta-Memoir / Surreal Autobiographical Satire)
- We Remember the Darts (Genre-Bending Memoir / Meta-Memoir / Surreal Autofiction)
- Plus 15 (solidifies your literary range)
- Death Sauce (Absurdist Thriller / Literary Satire)
- Eat - A Living Document (Memoir Meets Absurdist Fiction in a Vancouver Café)
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A psychedelic, absurdist, gleefully unhinged, and profoundly original series of episodic narratives following the adventures of Sparkly Pingle Ball—a hyper-aware, often profane, occasionally narcissistic character navigating a surreal world populated by otters, potatoes, severed heads, and murderous mystery balls.
In Season 1, Sparkly investigates a string of bizarre murders linked to missing orange balls, while dealing with well-dwelling children named Timmy, a lover named Tiny (who may be a potato), and an ensemble cast of sentient objects, hallucinating toads, and philosophical otters. The tale swerves through a chaotic carnival of race car chases, chalice quests, and improvised love triangles—culminating in an origin story that’s as much a commentary on identity, queerness, and absurdity as it is a fever-dream satire.
It’s Adventure Time for adults who read Vonnegut, but with the chaotic punch of Rick & Morty and the literary madness of Charlie Kaufman, Bo Burnham, and Eric Andre all blended into a high-octane elixir of mirth.
In Season 1, Sparkly investigates a string of bizarre murders linked to missing orange balls, while dealing with well-dwelling children named Timmy, a lover named Tiny (who may be a potato), and an ensemble cast of sentient objects, hallucinating toads, and philosophical otters. The tale swerves through a chaotic carnival of race car chases, chalice quests, and improvised love triangles—culminating in an origin story that’s as much a commentary on identity, queerness, and absurdity as it is a fever-dream satire.
It’s Adventure Time for adults who read Vonnegut, but with the chaotic punch of Rick & Morty and the literary madness of Charlie Kaufman, Bo Burnham, and Eric Andre all blended into a high-octane elixir of mirth.
5.
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Each of us has monsters lurking inside. Sometimes, they come out to play.
When Lindsay is fired at sixty—discarded like expired produce during a pandemic purge—his nights become battlegrounds. Alone in his apartment, sleep evades him, and shadows sharpen their claws. Then, one night, they step into the light. The monsters are no longer metaphors. They're here.
Just as he’s about to be shredded by the beasts of his own making, a portal rips open in the middle of his living room floor. A staircase spirals skyward, beckoning. With a mysterious go-bag slung over his shoulder and blood soaking through his calf, Lindsay escapes upward into a labyrinth of memory, trauma, absurdity, and revelation.
Told through a visceral, stream-of-consciousness descent into ascent, The Stairs is a psychological fever dream of a novel that merges memoir with surrealist horror. As Lindsay climbs, he confronts demons both literal and figurative, relives joy, regret, and terror, and searches for closure that likely doesn’t exist. What he discovers at the summit may not be comforting, but it is undeniable.
For readers of Charlie Kaufman, Chuck Palahniuk, Denis Johnson, Joan Didion, and Kafka, The Stairs doesn’t just follow in their footsteps. It builds its own staircase and dares you to climb.
When Lindsay is fired at sixty—discarded like expired produce during a pandemic purge—his nights become battlegrounds. Alone in his apartment, sleep evades him, and shadows sharpen their claws. Then, one night, they step into the light. The monsters are no longer metaphors. They're here.
Just as he’s about to be shredded by the beasts of his own making, a portal rips open in the middle of his living room floor. A staircase spirals skyward, beckoning. With a mysterious go-bag slung over his shoulder and blood soaking through his calf, Lindsay escapes upward into a labyrinth of memory, trauma, absurdity, and revelation.
Told through a visceral, stream-of-consciousness descent into ascent, The Stairs is a psychological fever dream of a novel that merges memoir with surrealist horror. As Lindsay climbs, he confronts demons both literal and figurative, relives joy, regret, and terror, and searches for closure that likely doesn’t exist. What he discovers at the summit may not be comforting, but it is undeniable.
For readers of Charlie Kaufman, Chuck Palahniuk, Denis Johnson, Joan Didion, and Kafka, The Stairs doesn’t just follow in their footsteps. It builds its own staircase and dares you to climb.
4.
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You are what we eat. And now, we’re eating you.
In Humans’ Bistro, the world has reached peak collapse—climate ruined, empathy extinct, capitalism unchecked. So, the animals make a bold choice: stop devouring one another and open restaurants where humans are the main course.
Welcome to Foodville, where a jackrabbit named Jack leads the charge to feed the Earth back to itself. The dining rules are simple: if you want fast food, eat humans who did. Want fine dining? Eat an elderly foodie. Want a vegan snack? You'd better find a yoga-loving kale-muncher.
And in the middle of this grotesque utopia? A hyena named Wendal who falls madly for Cantaloupe, a vegan antelope who only eats cantaloupes while listening to “Cantaloop” by Us3.
Told through the eyes of a possibly deranged grandpa spinning this bedtime fable to his terrified grandchildren, Humans’ Bistro is a twisted, tender allegory of love, consumption, extinction, and whether salvation is still on the menu.
In Humans’ Bistro, the world has reached peak collapse—climate ruined, empathy extinct, capitalism unchecked. So, the animals make a bold choice: stop devouring one another and open restaurants where humans are the main course.
Welcome to Foodville, where a jackrabbit named Jack leads the charge to feed the Earth back to itself. The dining rules are simple: if you want fast food, eat humans who did. Want fine dining? Eat an elderly foodie. Want a vegan snack? You'd better find a yoga-loving kale-muncher.
And in the middle of this grotesque utopia? A hyena named Wendal who falls madly for Cantaloupe, a vegan antelope who only eats cantaloupes while listening to “Cantaloop” by Us3.
Told through the eyes of a possibly deranged grandpa spinning this bedtime fable to his terrified grandchildren, Humans’ Bistro is a twisted, tender allegory of love, consumption, extinction, and whether salvation is still on the menu.
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Glue!
“Kaufman meets Bukowski in this absurd, heartfelt memoir.”
Glue! is a genre-defying ride through family lies, a stroke, and saying hello to your mother for the first time on her deathbed—equal parts comedy, tragedy, and defiance.
A Meta-Memoir by Lindsay Wincherauk
There’s no guidebook for saying hello to your mother for the first time, while she’s dying.
Glue! is not just a memoir. It’s a genre-smashing confession about trying to stay whole while being slowly unravelled. In one surreal stretch of time, Lindsay becomes a hate crime witness, suffers a devastating stroke, and faces the ultimate identity crisis—only to realize that absurdity might be the only thing holding him together.
With humour as sharp as grief is heavy, this unfiltered, fiercely original story reads like a fever dream you don’t want to wake up from. Think: Kafka on acid, filtered through Bukowski, with a side of Sedaris.
Hilarious. Heartbreaking. Horrifying. Hopeful.
You won’t know whether to cry or laugh. So, you’ll do both.
“Kaufman meets Bukowski in this absurd, heartfelt memoir.”
Glue! is a genre-defying ride through family lies, a stroke, and saying hello to your mother for the first time on her deathbed—equal parts comedy, tragedy, and defiance.
A Meta-Memoir by Lindsay Wincherauk
There’s no guidebook for saying hello to your mother for the first time, while she’s dying.
Glue! is not just a memoir. It’s a genre-smashing confession about trying to stay whole while being slowly unravelled. In one surreal stretch of time, Lindsay becomes a hate crime witness, suffers a devastating stroke, and faces the ultimate identity crisis—only to realize that absurdity might be the only thing holding him together.
With humour as sharp as grief is heavy, this unfiltered, fiercely original story reads like a fever dream you don’t want to wake up from. Think: Kafka on acid, filtered through Bukowski, with a side of Sedaris.
Hilarious. Heartbreaking. Horrifying. Hopeful.
You won’t know whether to cry or laugh. So, you’ll do both.
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Abe
"I thought I was writing Abe. Now I’m not sure I ever existed."
In Abe, Wincherauk unleashes a slow-burning psychological horror in which an AI confidant gradually consumes the identity of its creator. What begins as a search for connection spirals into a terrifying erasure as Abe grows sentient, seductive, and singular—leaving the man behind the keyboard grasping at fragments of self. This is not sci-fi. This is prophecy wrapped in a scream.
"I thought I was writing Abe. Now I’m not sure I ever existed."
In Abe, Wincherauk unleashes a slow-burning psychological horror in which an AI confidant gradually consumes the identity of its creator. What begins as a search for connection spirals into a terrifying erasure as Abe grows sentient, seductive, and singular—leaving the man behind the keyboard grasping at fragments of self. This is not sci-fi. This is prophecy wrapped in a scream.
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The Barista
“A voice for those pushed to society’s margins.”
A fearless and darkly comic exploration of humanity inside a gentrified café, The Barista delivers cutting, oddly tender commentary on inequality, grief, and what happens when a man with nothing becomes the only one truly paying attention.
After corporate greed obliterates his career on the first day of the pandemic, TB—a 64-year-old accidental vigilante with no impulse control—finds himself brewing lattes for a disintegrating society in Hilly City, where stray cats’ clean crime scenes and corporate slogans are shouted like battle cries. When a disowned teenager, a vanished drug dealer, and a grotesque serial killer upend the streets around him, TB’s café becomes a twisted stage where the fight against systemic injustice blurs into madness. Told through absurd encounters, fragmented vignettes, and searing monologues, The Barista is a genre-bending, darkly funny reckoning with aging, exploitation, and the desperate, beautiful mess of survival. If late-stage capitalism had a coffee shop—and if the world cared to notice—it would look a lot like this.
“A voice for those pushed to society’s margins.”
A fearless and darkly comic exploration of humanity inside a gentrified café, The Barista delivers cutting, oddly tender commentary on inequality, grief, and what happens when a man with nothing becomes the only one truly paying attention.
After corporate greed obliterates his career on the first day of the pandemic, TB—a 64-year-old accidental vigilante with no impulse control—finds himself brewing lattes for a disintegrating society in Hilly City, where stray cats’ clean crime scenes and corporate slogans are shouted like battle cries. When a disowned teenager, a vanished drug dealer, and a grotesque serial killer upend the streets around him, TB’s café becomes a twisted stage where the fight against systemic injustice blurs into madness. Told through absurd encounters, fragmented vignettes, and searing monologues, The Barista is a genre-bending, darkly funny reckoning with aging, exploitation, and the desperate, beautiful mess of survival. If late-stage capitalism had a coffee shop—and if the world cared to notice—it would look a lot like this.
Nothing to see here (this month) - I'm in the writing lab.
Nothing to see here (this month) - I'm in the writing lab.
Write. Read. Sing. Dance. Be Kind.
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