Author name: Roger Hyttinen

Whiskey, Wards, and Wisecracks—How Noir Paved the Way for Urban Fantasy Detectives

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Noir detective at work

So here’s a thing I’ve been thinking about (probably too much): modern urban fantasy detectives are basically chain-smoking, spell-slinging love children of classic noir gumshoes. Like, if Raymond Chandler’s Philip Marlowe woke up in a world full of vampires, magical artifacts, and ghosts with unfinished business, you’d get about 80% of today’s gritty, snarky paranormal investigators.

Seriously—if you love stuff like The Dresden Files, Rivers of London, or even Netflix’s weird little gem The Order(RIP), you owe a big, grimy hug to noir.

Let’s go back a sec. Classic noir detectives—think Sam Spade (The Maltese Falcon) or Mike Hammer—were loners. Cynical. Had questionable hygiene but, like, were somehow still magnetic. They lurked in alleys, drank too much, trusted no one, and almost always got emotionally wrecked by a femme fatale with legs for days and secrets for centuries.

Sound familiar?

Now imagine swapping out the fedora for a charm-laced trench coat, the revolver for a runed dagger, and the cigarette for… okay fine, they probably still smoke. Just maybe cloves or enchanted ones now. And boom: you’ve got Harry Dresden (The Dresden Files, Jim Butcher’s long-running series). He’s basically a noir detective wrapped in wizard drag—he works cases, gets beat up a lot, deals with shady clients, and has that whole “I’m tired but I care too much” thing going on. Also, his office literally has “Wizard” painted on the door. No subtlety, just vibes.

Another one? Peter Grant in Ben Aaronovitch’s Rivers of London series. He starts off as a regular beat cop who accidentally sees a ghost and gets roped into a hidden magical underworld. There’s bureaucracy, ancient gods squatting in public housing, and a talking river goddess who could probably punch your soul out of your body. Peter’s dry humor and methodical cop brain are pure noir, but now it’s layered with arcane rituals and angry fae creatures.

You know what I love about this noir-meets-magic cocktail? It’s messy. Noir has always thrived in moral gray areas, and urban fantasy just throws glitter on those grays. Like, your local necromancer might be shady, but if he’s the only one who can stop a soul bomb from going off in the subway, guess what? You’re working with him. Begrudgingly. Probably while insulting each other the whole time.

Let’s not ignore the visuals, either. Classic noir is all rain-slick streets and flickering neon signs. Urban fantasy kept that aesthetic but added gargoyle sentries, haunted jazz clubs, and the occasional demon-possession incident in a 24-hour diner. It’s like someone took Double Indemnity and decided it needed more tentacles. I am not mad about this.

Also! Fun fact: the word “noir” literally means black in French. So noir fiction? Black fiction. As in dark, shadowy, morally twisted. Not just about literal lighting (though I do love a good backlit silhouette and a dramatic cloud of cigarette smoke). Source: Merriam-Webster, because I’m nerdy like that.

Anyway, back to feelings. One of the reasons I love this noir-to-now lineage is because it gives us detectives who don’t always win—but they try anyway. They’re the kind of characters who’ll go toe-to-toe with a cursed mobster or a succubus assassin even when they’re bleeding out and down to their last sarcastic quip. They’re compelled to do the right thing, even when it’s probably the stupidest option on the table. I vibe with that.

So yeah. Next time you’re watching some brooding private eye cast a spell while bleeding into his trench coat and muttering about justice, just know—he’s channeling the ghosts of noir legends past. And probably getting ghost-mugged in a magically seedy alleyway for his trouble.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go reread Storm Front and pretend I don’t want to name my future cat “Mab.”

Stay strange and solve things.

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From Stick Figures to Stardom — Why We All Start Somewhere

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young man painting

So I’ve been thinking about this quote lately that’s been bouncing around in my head like a ping-pong ball – “Every artist was first an amateur” by Ralph Waldo Emerson. You know how sometimes a phrase just hits you at the weirdest moment? I was literally standing in line at the coffee shop yesterday, watching the barista create these insane latte art designs, when it clicked.

I mean, think about it. That barista probably started out making coffee that looked like brown soup with foam blobs floating on top. But there she was, crafting these delicate little leaf patterns that made me feel guilty for even drinking them. It got me wondering about all the times I’ve been too scared to try something because I wasn’t immediately good at it.

Remember when you were a kid and you’d grab those chunky crayons and just go wild on paper? The smell of that waxy residue, the scratchy sound against construction paper – pure magic. Nobody told us we were “bad” at art back then. We just created because it felt good. Somewhere along the way, though, we started comparing ourselves to others and suddenly our stick figures seemed embarrassing.

Here’s something that blew my mind recently: Vincent van Gogh didn’t even start painting until he was 27 years old. Twenty-seven! That’s older than some of my friends who think they’re “too late” to learn guitar or try pottery. The guy who gave us “Starry Night” was basically a late bloomer, and look how that turned out.

I’ve got this friend who always said she couldn’t draw to save her life. Like, she’d literally apologize before sketching directions on a napkin. But last year she got fed up with her corporate job and enrolled in an art class on a whim. The first few weeks were rough – I’m talking geometric shapes that looked like they’d been drawn during an earthquake. But something shifted around week four. Her hands started remembering what her brain was telling them to do.

Now her whole social media presence is dedicated to her botanical sketches, and honestly? They’re gorgeous. Not museum-worthy yet, maybe, but there’s something raw and honest about them that makes you stop scrolling. She told me the other day that she can actually smell the pencil shavings from sharpening her drawing tools now — it’s become this weird meditation for her.

The thing is, we live in this instant-everything culture where people expect to be TikTok famous after posting one video. But mastery is messy. It’s about showing up when your work looks terrible and doing it anyway. It’s about the calluses forming on your fingertips from guitar strings, or the paint under your nails that won’t come out no matter how much you scrub.

I read somewhere that it takes about 10,000 hours to truly master something — that’s roughly five years of full-time work! But here’s what they don’t tell you: those first hundred hours are usually the most fun because everything is new and surprising. You’re not worried about being perfect yet; you’re just playing.

So maybe Emerson was onto something bigger than just art. Maybe he was talking about giving ourselves permission to suck at things initially. To embrace that awkward beginner phase where everything feels foreign and your creations look nothing like what you pictured in your head.

What’s stopping you from picking up that paintbrush or learning that language you’ve been thinking about? Start amateur. Stay curious.

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New Nick Novella Coming Soon

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book cover for Nick's Awakening

Okay, so I’ve gotten quite a few emails lately—more than a few, actually—from readers asking if I’m ever going to write another book in the Ghost Oracle world. Some of you were super polite about it, like “Would you ever consider it?” and others basically shouted “MORE NICK MICHELSON, PLEASE” (you know who you are). And honestly? I’ve thought about it. Not in a “clear my calendar, it’s happening now” way, but it’s definitely been lurking in the back of my brain like a ghost that never fully crossed over. So while I don’t have any immediate plans to write a whole new book in the series, I have decided to do something a little fun. A little extra. A little haunted.

I’m working on a brand-new Ghost Oracle novella. Yep. It’ll feature Nick, some supernatural shenanigans, and—this is your teaser alert—a haunted video arcade. (Because of course.) I just started outlining it, but it’s already got that weird, goosebumpy energy I love writing, and I think you’re gonna have a blast with it. Best part? It’s going to be completely free for newsletter subscribers. Past subscribers, current subscribers, new subscribers, time-traveling subscribers from the future—I’m not picky. It’s a thank-you gift, really. You’ve all been so supportive, and this is my way of saying I see you and appreciate the heck out of you.

Anyway, thanks as always for reading and being part of this little spooky book club we’ve accidentally created. More updates soon—probably with ghosts, possibly with neon lights. Stay tuned.

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Magical Ride-or-Dies and Why I’d Be Dead Without Mine

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So the other day, I was rereading this queer fantasy book where the main character is this awkward mage who can barely cast a spell without catching his sleeves on fire—and somehow still manages to save the realm. Classic. But you know what really stuck with me this time? His friends. Like, not the hot vampire love interest (though I’m always here for that drama), but the sweet cinnamon roll of a healer who patched him up after every bad decision, the sarcastic rogue who risked her life for him even though she’d never admit it, and the grumpy mentor who said maybe five nice things in the entire book and every one of them made me cry.

It hit me, hard, how often queer fantasy heroes survive not just because they’re “the chosen one,” but because they’ve got people behind them whispering, “You’ve got this,” or in some cases yelling, “For the love of dragons, stop trying to die!”

Supportive friendships in fantasy? They’re everything. Especially when you’re writing or reading stories with queer characters. Because let’s be honest—being queer, whether in a magical kingdom or small-town America, can feel like wandering into a dark forest without a map. There are monsters out there. Some look like literal demons. Others sound like your aunt at Thanksgiving asking if “you’ve met any nice girls yet.” And in both cases, having allies matters.

In queer fantasy, those allies often show up as the ride-or-die best friend, the surprisingly progressive dwarven blacksmith, or the found family of scrappy rebels who don’t care who you love as long as you can hold your own in a tavern brawl. These characters might not be the stars of the story, but they’re the ones who build the safety net. And speaking from experience—having that net in real life? It’s not just comforting. It’s life-changing.

I think one of the reasons these dynamics hit so hard is because queer folks know the value of chosen family better than almost anyone. For many of us, the traditional support system either fell short or straight-up vanished. So we build our own. And when we see those relationships mirrored in fantasy worlds—whether it’s two witches sticking up for each other at coven meetings or an elven archer defending her trans brother against a bigoted king—it’s more than representation. It’s recognition.

And it doesn’t always have to be a heavy, trauma-drenched thing, either. Sometimes it’s just a best friend holding your hand while you come out to the guild. Or casting a glamour spell so you can wear what makes you feel like you without the villagers getting weird. Or throwing a “you survived another heartbreak” party with goblin-made cake. (Please tell me I’m not the only one who needs that last one.)

One of my favorite examples is Jesper and Wylan from Six of Crows. Sure, they’re love interests, but they’re also allies to each other’s traumas, quirks, and past screw-ups. And I’ll never stop shouting about The House in the Cerulean Sea, where literally every character is some form of found family ally and I melted into a little puddle of feelings. Like, give me a sword and a supportive queer sidekick who tells me I’m valid while we storm the necromancer’s tower, and I am set for life.

Anyway, I guess what I’m trying to say is: magic helps, but what really saves us—again and again—is friendship. The real kind. The kind that sees you, holds space for you, and walks through the fire with you. Whether that fire is metaphorical (like dealing with rejection) or actual (dragon attack—oops), knowing someone’s got your back makes all the difference.

So here’s to the allies. The magical ones. The mundane ones. The messy, imperfect, fiercely loyal ones. May we always write them, celebrate them, and be them.

Catch you later, chosen ones. And if you ever need backup on your next quest, emotional or otherwise—I’ve got snacks and sarcasm ready to go.

book cover for Nick's Awakening
Read the book that began it all – Nick’s Awakening

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The Art of the Slow Burn – How to Make Your Detective Yearn (Without Making Readers Yawn)

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Okay, so here’s the thing—there’s something borderline magical about slow burn romance when it’s done right. I’m not talking about the kind where the characters barely touch for 700 pages and you’re just sitting there like, “Are we doing this or not?” No. I’m talking about that good, simmering tension, the kind that hums under every shared glance and unfinished sentence. Especially when it’s tangled up in something gritty, like a detective noir world where everybody’s wearing too much wool and probably hiding a gun under their trench coat. Which, hi, is exactly the headspace I’ve been living in lately, since I’m elbow-deep writing about ghosts, crimes, and gay detectives with haunted pasts. (Don’t judge—it’s 1937 Chicago, everybody’s haunted.)

So let’s chat about what makes a slow burn between a detective and their love interest actually work. Because there’s a delicious art to it, like cooking risotto or perfectly ironing pleated pants. You’ve gotta have tension, you’ve gotta have friction, and most of all, you’ve gotta make me want them to get together so badly that I’m mentally screaming at the page, “Just kiss already!” But not actually ready for them to kiss. Yet.

I think we need to talk about Jake Gittes and Evelyn Mulwray from Chinatown (1974) first, because wow, talk about complicated. Jack Nicholson plays Gittes with this oily charisma—he’s a P.I. who thinks he’s seen it all until Evelyn (Faye Dunaway, cheekbones of legend) shows up with her secrets stacked three layers deep. You want them to connect. You see the chemistry. But the closer he gets to her, the more things fall apart. It’s less about the sexy payoff (though their one intimate moment has this weird, sad softness to it) and more about the suspense of peeling back emotional layers. That’s what good slow burn does: it gives you reasons for them not to get together. Yet.

One of my other personal favorites is more recent: True Detective Season 1. Now hear me out—yes, Rust (Matthew McConaughey, peak haunted-weirdo mode) and Maggie (Michelle Monaghan) aren’t your typical slow-burn pair, but there’s this whole murky undercurrent of tension between Rust and everyone. What makes it juicy is that we don’t want_them to get together—and yet, when it happens, you _get why. It’s messy and wrong and kind of inevitable. That edge-of-your-seat messiness is what makes noir slow burns special. Love is never neat in noir. It’s lipstick-stained and a little bloody around the edges.

And if we’re going full classic? Sam Spade and Brigid O’Shaughnessy in The Maltese Falcon. Humphrey Bogart plays Spade like a man perpetually two seconds from lighting a cigarette and two seconds from throwing someone out a window. Mary Astor’s Brigid is mysterious, manipulative, and maybe a little doomed. Their tension is all tangled up in lies and double-crosses and the slow, creeping realization that no one is really who they say they are. And still—still—you catch those tiny sparks. A brush of the hand. A locked gaze. A smirk. It’s the good stuff. The stuff noir was made for.

For a more queer-coded (okay, not even coded, just… there) example: I need to throw some love to Rope (1948). Yes, it’s Hitchcock. Yes, it’s technically a murder story in real time. But have you seen Brandon and Philip? John Dall and Farley Granger practically burn holes through each other. The tension is thick enough to carve your name into. Their dynamic is sharp, uncomfortable, and charged in a way that still makes people write academic papers about it.

Anyway, my point is: the slow burn works in detective stories because everybody’s too damaged, too cautious, or too busy dodging bullets to fall into each other’s arms. And honestly? That makes it better. If they have the emotional bandwidth to flirt in a healthy way while someone bleeds out in the next room, they are not my people. Give me the detective who grumbles a soft “be careful” instead of “I love you.” Give me the love interest who patches them up in a dingy bathroom while they both pretend it means nothing. Let it smolder. Let it ache.

One last thing—sometimes, not letting them get together at all is the biggest power move. Because then that tension lives in your bones forever. Like Rick and Ilsa in Casablanca (I know, I know—it’s not noir, but it feels noir if you squint). That final goodbye is so emotionally loaded you can practically taste the regret in the fog. Sometimes, walking away hurts more than staying. And that hurts so good.

So yeah. If your detective has a love interest? Make it messy. Make it slow. Make every look, every almost-touch, count. And if you ever get stuck, just ask yourself: what would Bogart do? Probably say something heart-wrenching and then vanish into the fog.

Read the book that began it all – the first novel in my Ghost Oracle series: Nick’s Awakening

Nick's Awakening

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A liitle update — and a newish book out now

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vintage writer with quill pen

Whew. So, big news first: I officially shut down my day job. Yep. After nearly two decades of that chapter in my life, I finally slammed the door, locked it, and maybe even set the keys on fire a little bit. I mean…not literally. But yeah, I’m free now—free to dive headfirst into writing like I’ve always wanted to. And let me tell you, the words have been flowing. Like, coffee-pot-left-on-overnight level flowing.

Right now, I’m elbows-deep in my new detective noir series set in 1937, and it stars this sharp, broody, secretly tender gay detective named Lucien Knight. He’s the kind of guy who orders whiskey straight and pretends not to believe in ghosts—until one throws a barstool at his head. The poor guy wants to be a “normal” detective handling “normal” cases but just keeps ending up knee-deep in ghosts. It’s a vibe.

I’ve written the first two books in the series (I know, right??) and a third one’s already fully outlined and itching to be drafted. I’m very much a plotter, not a throw-it-at-the-wall-and-hope-it-sticks kind of writer, so I’ve got every twist and red herring lined up like little literary ducklings. Of course, we’re still in first draft territory, which means the editing phase is coming at me like a freight train. But I’m weirdly excited about that, too. There’s something satisfying about sanding a story down till it shines like a cursed dagger in a smoky back alley.

So yeah, expect to see  a lot more from me going forward. No more juggling jobs and sacrificing sleep to write a paragraph here and there—I’m in this full-time now, and I couldn’t be happier.

And for those of you who missed it, my latest novel, “The Golem’s Guardian” is out now. You can snatch it here, if you’d like. The synopsis is below:

Blurb

David Rosen’s life as a Brooklyn librarian is predictably ordinary—until the night he accidentally brings a tiny clay figure to life. Suddenly, David discovers he possesses an extraordinary gift passed down through generations of his Jewish ancestors: the ability to create golems, magical protectors formed from clay and ancient mysticism.

As David struggles to understand his newfound powers, two unexpected forces enter his life: Jacob, a charismatic social worker who captures David’s heart, and a shadowy sorcerer wreaking supernatural havoc across Brooklyn. When the mysterious villain—known only as the Shadow—threatens everything David holds dear, he must embrace his heritage and master his abilities before it’s too late.

With guidance from a wise rabbi and support from his sister Sarah, David crafts a towering clay guardian powerful enough to protect his community. But every time the golem fights, David pays a physical price. As a rare celestial alignment approaches that will amplify both his power and the Shadow’s, David faces an impossible choice: risk everything to stop the darkness, or protect himself and lose the man he’s grown to love.
In a world where ancient magic meets modern Brooklyn, one reluctant hero discovers that true strength comes not from power, but from the courage to use it wisely.

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Should I Stay or Should I Ghost the Apocalypse?

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So here’s a thing I’ve been mulling over lately—like, while brushing my teeth, walking to the mailbox, and half-listening to podcasts I swear I’m going to finish. It’s this whole tug-of-war between withdrawing and continuing to show up and fight, especially now, when the political climate feels like it’s been microwaved on high for seven years straight and the smell coming out is… not good. You know?

I’ve had days where I’m like, That’s it. I’m outta here. Gonna delete every app, unplug my router, adopt a hedgehog, and disappear into the woods where no one uses the phrase “culture war” unironically. But then five minutes later I’ll see a news headline that feels like it was pulled from a rejected Handmaid’s Tale script and suddenly I’m hate-refreshing Twitter and typing angry emails to my senator. (Who never replies. Rude.)

It’s a weird place to live—this teetering between burnout and fury. Like, on one hand, withdrawing sounds so peaceful. Just cocooning up and pretending the world isn’t actively lit on fire? Tempting. But also… that’s exactly what a lot of folks want people like me to do. (And by “people like me,” I mean anyone who gives a damn about actual rights and not just rebranded control dressed up as “values.”)

There’s this scene in Andor—and yes, I’m about to get Star Wars-serious for a second—where Stellan Skarsgård’s character gives this monologue about sacrificing everything for the rebellion. He’s not shiny like Luke Skywalker. He’s bitter and tired and completely jaded, but he’s still in it. That kind of resignation-fueled resistance? Ugh. It wrecked me. Because that’s what fighting often looks like. Not banners and parades. More like missed sleep, shaky hands, and still deciding to keep going anyway.

And don’t even get me started on The Hunger Games. Katniss didn’t sign up to be the face of the revolution. She wanted to survive. Protect her sister. Maybe plant a garden someday. But the system shoved her into the spotlight, and she did what she had to do, even while unraveling emotionally like the rest of us would’ve. Sometimes courage looks like shooting an arrow at the freaking Capitol. Other times, it looks like not screaming in an interview with Caesar Flickerman.

Now, full disclosure—I do withdraw. I vanish for a bit, nap weird hours, eat toast for dinner. But the thing is, I always come back. I think we have to let ourselves pull back sometimes so we can actually sustain the struggle. We’re not machines. Even Batman had to take a beat and lick his wounds (and probably moisturize, honestly, because that cowl looks drying). Rest isn’t quitting. It’s sharpening your claws before the next round.

At the end of the day, I think it comes down to this: hiding is okay for a while. Recharge, recenter, maybe binge-watch something with emotionally satisfying comeuppance (Looking at you, The Fall of the House of Usher—justice, finally!). But don’t let that retreat turn into permanent exile. The world still needs your voice. Even if it’s wobbly. Even if it only squeaks out a vote or a shared article or one stubborn conversation with That Uncle at Thanksgiving.

Take care of you. Then get back in there and raise a little hell.

Catch you on the barricades (or in my blanket fort for now),
—R

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