As Christmas lights twinkled in the frosty twilight, I sat down at my aged oaken desk, a relic as weary as my spirit, and penned a note that carried more weight than the usual holiday cheer.
This year, instead of a tangible gift wrapped in glimmering paper and ribbon, I’d like to extend a piece of my soul bound in words.
I call it “The Days in the Life of Lindsay Wincherauk ~the travails of an unwanted son~.”
It’s waiting for you, wrapped in digital format, a click away on the shelves of my virtual haven (scroll to The Freshest Release - Click Lindsay Musings: Volume 1 - Read)
Sleeping Seagull Books Take your time, peruse the stacks. Books $20.00 each $5.00 of each book sold is held (in trust) for: The Falling Thr
Forged over fourteen relentless days (yes, I wrote it in fourteen days while battling depression) in December. Each word was a battle against the grey fog of depression and the storm of uncertainty raging in my mind. The persistent clacking of my keyboard became my refrain against surrender, my stand against the encroaching dark.
Despite their best intentions, some of my friends serve as unwitting heralds of doubt. Their words echo in my mind—: “Focus, Lindsay,” “Stop dwelling”—a chorus I’ve grown to fear.
One, in particular, has become a wayward angel, proclaiming to anyone who would listen that it’s high time I “get off my lazy butt and get a job.” A bitter laugh escapes me every time; they don’t see the mountain of 280+ job applications, a testament to my tenacity—or perhaps my desperation.
After all, at 63, the job market doesn’t exactly throw open its doors.
Fear—a constant companion, its icy fingers wrapping around my heart.
The future, once a bright path, is now shrouded in mists of uncertainty. My family’s fate, entwined with mine, only compounds the dread.
I’m not looking for platitudes or cheer, no. When the night is long and deep, those well-meant sentiments often twist into daggers.
So, here I am, reaching out into the void, offering not only my book but every fibre of well-wishing my weary heart can muster.
If my story resonates with you, I implore you—share it, let it ripple out into the world.
If you prefer, I will send you the PDF of my heart’s latest labour.
Send me your email with “Book Please” crowning the subject line. And I’ll ignite the digital forge and cast a copy in your direction.
