My day generally starts with a thought when the alarm clock goes off at 5:30am:
Already?
I’ve always been a night owl. Mornings are not my friend. But my wife, Becky, teaches art at a high school half an hour’s drive from here. She’s a night owl, too.
So, I start my day by helping her get ready and out the door. I’ll crank up the Keurig for her two cups of coffee (one in a travel mug), make her PB&J and her vanilla yogurt with a Kind bar crumbled in it, all while feeding our two hungry Norwegian Forest cats, Malik and Nala. They are the sweetest creatures on Earth.
So is Becky.
I recently retired, so the day is mostly mine. Oh, sure, I tend to chores and other hiccups over the course of a day. But they’re usually dealt with without drama.
Thursdays are busiest. That’s when the local pet store receives its delivery of cat food. It’s no small thing. The fair-sized beasts go through four small cans a day of a particular store brand, and if I don’t get there on time, I then must jet off to another store in the chain, and hope they haven’t also run out.
Then I join the weekly Zoom meeting with my author marketing support group in the late afternoon. And in the early evening I participate in a Bible study, also Zooming.
Thursdays run me a little ragged. And I’m never satisfied with my writing output at the end of the day Thursdays, because life also happens besides my weekly commitments. Take today, for example. Our Keurig coffee maker died a few days ago (poor us!). My sister-in-law found a like-new one in a thrift store, so I had to drive about forty minutes to pick it up. Then to Starbucks to buy Becky a new travel cup (she destroyed hers. Oh well) because they had a clearance sale on them. Then a stop at the grocery store before heading home…
I do the cooking at home by the way, and am happy to do it. I enjoy the kitchen.
My writing work is never far from me, though. Something usually rattles around in my head—the next chapter, a tweak to a character or story line, a reminder to check on my settings to make sure they’re accurate and descriptive without becoming boring.
Becoming boring is especially a concern of mine. I remember decades ago, reading a certain extremely thick book by a well-known author, which I believe was his last one. He was very, very old. I suppose the publishers thought they could cash in on his fame because, my goodness, I couldn’t get through the whole thing. It was soooooooooo boring! The book read to me like a three inch thick compilation of descriptions. I don’t recall any characters or their actions. That’s not necessarily to pile more dirt on the now long-gone author’s grave so much as it is a reminder to me to not do what he did—the descriptions of his settings, and even of his characters, grew mind-numbing.
The idea is to show, not tell. If I want to describe something, I prefer it to be the description of an action. But I also want to put my characters in a setting my readers can see in their mind’s eye. It’s a delicate balancing act.
So, on a usual day I’ll take a brisk two-to-three mile walk in the morning, possibly a short nap after, and then write. If I’m lucky, I’ll be able to write until Becky gets home, usually between 5 and 6pm. Then I spend the evening—and all day Saturday and Sunday—with her. Is it ideal? What’s “ideal?” I get to write, to study and to spend time with my wife and my cats.
I have few complaints. And that’s as close to “ideal” as I feel my days can be.
Last Words: A Supernatural Murder Mystery Hanson and Brewer Murder Mysteries
Book One
Marty Roppelt
Genre: Mystery / Supernatural / Horror
Publisher: Dragon Breath Press
Date of Publication: February 7, 2025
ISBN: 979-8985349580
ASIN: B0D184PVWZ
Number of pages: 151
Word Count: 36,241
Cover Artist: Christopher Chambers
Tagline: Some cases cut deeper when the dead refuse to stay buried
Book Description:
Last Words: A Supernatural Murder Mystery follows Chicago police Detective Myles Hanson as he navigates a world of crime and unsettling revelations. After a nighttime raid on a drug lab ends in a deadly shootout, Myles is convinced to transfer to another unit. His first case in Violent Crimes is unlike any he’s faced before. Maria Peski, a midwife with a quiet life, is savagely murdered.
But that’s not the only mystery haunting him. Myles begins experiencing chilling visions and inexplicable phenomena. He begins to hear the final words of the dead, fragments of unfinished thoughts from those who have passed. As the voices reveal clues no one else can uncover, Myles teams up with his streetwise and relentless partner, Tank Brewer, to piece together the secrets that the dead have left behind.
When a second murder rocks the city with startling similarities, Myles is increasingly pressured to accept that some clues lie beyond the realm of the living. As the line between the supernatural and the real begins to blur, Myles and Tank must untangle a web of deceit, violence, and spectral warnings before the killer strikes again.
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TRAILER: https://www.youtube.com/shorts/lU-_D-vPnRU
Excerpt:
Myles
paused at the glass doors to the Area North police station. He checked his
watch. Then he turned away from the entrance, paced roughly fifteen feet, added
several more steps and lit a Marlboro Light. He pulled his jacket collar up to
block an unusually crisp September breeze.
A
long strip of grass punctuated by an occasional shrub next to the building
attempted to soften the structure's strictly functional design. In the
courtyard, a few trees stood guard along with a twisting metal sculpture. But
the shades in all the windows were drawn, keeping the occupants' minds focused
on their tasks. The parking lot spread far in every direction. Several squad
cars waited there for their officers to climb in and begin their patrols.
Taking
in his surroundings, Myles shook his head. The Nineteenth District Patrol
station held more appeal to tourists to Chicago than did this location. A block
west of the Nineteenth on West Addison Street sat a busy elevated, or
"L," train station, over a century old and still flaunting its
original grid of iron spans and frames in the open. Another block further west,
Wrigley Field, home of the Chicago Cubs, buzzed with activity during home
stands. Across from the Nineteenth on Addison, a row of shotgun style houses
butted up against each other like a knot of sentinels standing shoulder to
shoulder. Some bore brownstone façades, some red brick. A thin sheen of grime,
car exhaust mostly, the grit of a busy city, covered them. All the dwellings
needed power washing or sand blasting.
He
knew that locale well, and it charmed even him.
But
no tourists visited this spot, the Area North station's locale. A massive tan
and brown brick building, Area North dwarfed the Nineteenth. Built in a
commercial and industrial zone, the station resembled a Big Box store in spite
of the unnaturally planted greenery. If not for the fleet of squad cars in the
sprawling lot, visitors might enter the north side's police nexus expecting to
buy a hot air fryer or bed linens.
Myles
nodded to himself. Area North was all business.
From
the corner of his eye, in the window nearest him, Myles spotted the reflection
of two women, one short and slight, the other tall and slender. They approached
from the parking lot arm-in-arm. The window distorted their shapes, giving them
a hot August day shimmer. Their pale complexions suggested a summer spent
together indoors. They both dressed for summer, each wearing tie-dyed blouses
but no jackets, immune to the cool day. The shorter one put Marla Hines in
mind. He recalled how she used to chide him whenever he sneaked out of the
Organized Crimes building for a quick smoke. As the pair neared him, they
opened their mouths, Myles assumed, to berate him.
"Sorry,
ladies," the smoker said. "I'll just put this out." He turned in
the women's direction.
They
were gone.
Frowning,
he swung his head around, scanning the area. Nothing. The parking lot lay empty
of everything but vehicles. Two uniformed cops exited the building. But no one
passed them heading in.
"Come
on, Hanson," he muttered.
He
stubbed the cigarette out on the heel of his shoe, deposited it into a nearby
trash can and entered the station.
Marty Roppelt lives in Wauconda, Illinois, with his wife Becky. Born and raised in Cleveland, Ohio, his family roots stem from Transylvania. Yes, THAT Transylvania, from where his parents emigrated in the mid 1950's. So of course, Marty enjoys writing in the supernatural / horror genre. In addition to his first novel, Mortal Foe, he has written a series of short paranormal Christmas stories to raise money for St. Herman’s House, a homeless shelter in Cleveland. He also has featured stories in anthologies, Tales from the Dragon's Lair and Holiday Hearth. Marty and Becky enjoy quiet time together with their cats Nala and Malik.
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