Writing is a great way to share with important and/or sad things in your life. Even in fiction it is brave, though you can separate yourself by taking yourself out of it and adapt it to your characters. Here is an excerpt from my novel Shattered. MY main character is a tall, fat comic in the 90s:

---

I am out for a walk after only a few hours of sleep. My head is feverish like the flu, but I am determined to lose weight. The same mind that tells me gas station fruit pies are still fruit tells me to jog, but I don’t want someone to laugh at the sight of me and make me their joke. This huge, fat guy was jogging today, and there wasn’t even a Dunkin’ Doughnuts in sight. Besides, by walking, I can smoke

The weather is right for smoking. The air is wet with mist, and the temperature dropped overnight. As if I am a lonely character on a movie set, I walk down the street with a cigarette in my mouth and my hands in my pockets. The mist wets my clothes and hair.

I throw the cigarette away and pick up the pace to get some actual exercise out of this. But more than that, I am trying to get away from being home, making me maudlin, and the weather is not helping.

This is my homecoming. Why doesn’t Alaine miss me in a commensurate amount to how long I was gone?

Why were things easier on the road? Because I did not have to face that everything good has gone away. My friends are gone or still in the cities, but we have lost touch. When I abandoned my highschool friends during college, I identied that you outgrow friends. But that is not what is happening now. I am sinking away from people. I am a little boy in my bedroom listening to laughter from the living room.

A girl that is about ten is out in the rain just to wear the yellow raincoat she has on. She is walking with one foot on the curb and the other on the sidewalk. Up. Down. Up. Down. Her mass of auburn hair in pigtails is bobbing around. Her cheeks are red from the cool air. I slow my lumber and watch her come toward me. I am struck by this lonely picture. No one should walk alone.

Children make me smile. If I had a daughter like this little girl, we could walk in the rain together. A son like the boys on the steps would be wonderful as well. That’s the real reason they caught my eye.

There are sad things in this world, and I am one of them. Even the beautiful things, such as the red-faced girl who is now swinging around a light pole, are in danger of being swallowed up. My throat tightens as she runs to the steps of her house.

At first, I wanted a friend for her or a group of friends to splash in the puddles with. Somehow, I felt guilty for her being alone. But she is ne. There will be warmth inside to draw out the color in her cheeks. She has people waiting for her. Still, in my mind, the beauty of the little girl mixes with the pain of her being solitary. Solitary is a game played by ugly people at the kitchen table.

---

In this short piece I have so many random parts of me. It is important that I include them.  By sharing dark parts of myself, I hope to connect with the reader.   See if these small things are as important as I believe them to be.

I absolutely did try to jog.  My mind fully believed gas station fruit pies was healthy.  I did go for walks when it was misting and especially when I lived in the twin cities, I thought it was striking to walk in the rain and smoke.

I never saw a little girl, but she is important for the story to foreshadow that having children haunts Mikey.  I simply love when kids walk on curbs like that.