So I have this plot that I’m working on, derived from a character that I had written in, of all places, a piece of fanfiction. Yeah, I said it. Fanfiction. No, I won’t tell you for what, where it’s posted or any other incriminating information regarding what many consider a loser’s masturbatory fantasy. Just for the record, I’d like to think I’m not a loser nor do I masturbate to my own writing. That would be just awkward . . . and rather messy.

So I have this chapter (in the fic) where I briefly introduce a character, a psychic, that owns a shop on Coney Island. She makes mention that she’s come across a slew of vampires and other dark creatures because, well, she’s psychic and picks up on those tidbits pretty quickly. This comes up because the two characters I have her encounter are vampires but don’t wear that fact on their sleeves. So, ever since I brewed that very small piece of information, the idea has been spiraling.

Now I have a character, Layla Bordonaro (married name, maiden name Vinidi) who’s been empathetic since her youth and as an adult has opened a psychic shop on Coney Island. Her husband, Frank, is a cop on Staten Island and they live in Gravesend (I just couldn’t pass up that name although I don’t know the layout of the area so that might change, I hope not). Layla’s originally from Bay Ridge and NOT named for the Derek and the Dominos song so whatever you do, don’t sing to her. Her name and the song are just a coincidence, or so she likes to convince herself.

Right now this first book is going to be chronicling her run-ins with the otherworldly from her youth and ending with her first shop story. I’d like to write each chapter as it’s own separate story that can be read individually or consecutively (per The Things They Carried by Tim O’Brien) but we’ll see how that works out. The second book would be more into who Layla is now, running her shop, her mishaps there, how she met Frank when the NYPD begrudgingly asked for her help on a homicide and it goes from there.

She’s a mouthy little thing; think Marisa Tomei from My Cousin Vinny with the paranormal humor of Buffy the Vampire Slayer (the original movie and the first couple seasons of the TV show before it got, you know, lame) and the quirkiness of something like Pushing Daisies meets House minus the medical degree. It’s not Twilight, no romantic involvement with any vampires with bleeding hearts. It’s Medium meets Murphy’s Law with a raw sense of humor. Layla stands her ground, doesn’t take any crap and refuses to become a midnight snack for a passing blood-sucker. Don’t get me wrong, she’s not a slayer, she doesn’t hunt anything. She’s a psychic empath that owns a shop in Coney Island and, as luck would have it, the paranormal cesspool gets thrown at her. It’s certainly a departure from your basic paranormal ghost story or psychic-turn-cop-helper tale.

I’m outlining now. I’ve even drawn a prototype for Layla which is saying something because I don’t draw, not from my head anyway. I can copy, sure, but not free range. At first she ended up looking like an Italian hooker but it turns out my shading in such small places sucked. She looks a little better now but it’s more of a caricature of her than a true-to-form portrait. I’m considering starting up a blog for the whole thing. At first I thought of a character blog but since the story is in first person, I figured that I could flesh out the character fine in the work itself and, knowing my luck, I’d come up with stuff in the blog that I’d want to use in the book so, to prevent that, I’m probably going to start a blog for the book(s) as a whole. We’ll see, though. Wait until it gets rolling a little more. Half.com is my best friend at the moment since I can get some good books for research for $1.00. Gotta love it. And admission for the Coney Island Museum is only 99 cents. Considering Sallie Mae is usurping my money, I can spare that.

So, yes, this is the underlying purpose for Finding Boddie. I do write and this is the proof . . . sort of. Well, considering I’ve only mentioned writing on here twice in how many posts, I didn’t want you all to think that I have this here for shits and giggles. The purpose is flitting in the breeze out on Coney Island. Under the clear streams of vodka running out of Brighton Beach lies my story. And it will be told . . . eventually.

And why is it when I aim to write a short post, I get these meandering pieces of long-windedness? Damn over-writing. I guess it’s better than underwriting, unless you’re an Underwriter. If that’s the case, you’re making a hell of a lot more money than I am, you lucky bastard.