The Day Your Writing Partner Says He’s Reading Someone Else

And you fly to Sweden for murder and cocoa.

I’d never had a writing partner before James and his efficient phrasing. It was the most fun I’d ever had writing until that homewrecker Jonas came along.

I wasn’t looking for a writing partner. I noticed James liking some of my stuff so I read some of his. He followed me and I followed him back. It was typical bloggy stuff until the day he left a comment.

I like that ending.

It was the first comment I’d received on anything I’d written. James told me he liked my ending. I struggle with endings. His words went straight into the soft underbelly of my prose.

I thanked him for his comment and began looking for a way to reciprocate that wouldn’t appear contrived. It wasn’t difficult. James is a talented writer. While reading a piece he wrote on productivity, one sentence jumped off the page, so I told him.

Great turn of phrase — worded perfectly!

We continued reading and commenting on one another’s work until James took our relationship to the next level. He left a private note on my magical grilled cheese food truck story.

Hey, would you read a rough draft for me and give me your opinion?

My fingers fumbled across the keys as I replied absolutely and gave him my email address. His draft arrived a few minutes later. I printed it out and sat down in my reading chair with a cup of black coffee in my left hand and my trusty pen in my right. If he wanted me to read his stuff, I would do it seriously.

I scoured every sentence. In his draft, he left out articles, especially ‘a’ and ‘the.’ I’d never seen it in his published stuff. It’s a charming quirk of his unfinished wordsmithing.

I transcribed my notes into comments on his Google doc and returned his email.

Looks good! I’ve made a few suggestions, but most of what you have is spot on.

He thanked me and offered to return the proofreading favor. I realized this would be a thing. We didn’t define the relationship, but as we read one another’s drafts, we shared a tacit understanding. We were writing partners.

Each morning, my fingers excitedly crept across my keyboard into my Google docs to see if James left any comments or revisions. We worked on several pieces at a time for one another. He helped me get published in my first major magazine. It was all very exciting until things changed. James changed. After protracted delays with no apology or explanation, James offered only curt comments. He seemed indifferent. Was I being needy?

I emailed him about a time-sensitive piece he agreed to read, emphasizing the urgency. James apologized and told me he’d been editing the novella of another writer named Jonas. Who the fuck was Jonas?

I stopped mid-sentence in my reply to his email because of the trembling in my hands. James had another writing partner. We didn’t say we wouldn’t read other people, so his working with Jonas was probably fine. It was technically fine. It was fine. He told me Jonas was an edgy 27-year-old writer from Sweden. Okay, so what? I mean, James and I could keep our thing going.

That same day, without warning me, James created a Google group for me, him, and Jonas. Was this a writing group? Was I not enough for James? I could handle a writing partner, but I wasn’t down for this threesome James was suggesting. Jonas might be the next Stieg Larsson, but he could go suck a gigantic bag of dicks.

James should have talked to me before setting up the group. Instead, he gave Jonas my email and the shameless little hussy emailed me.

I am so excited to be working with you, Tommy boy! Can’t wait!!

First, ‘Tommy boy?’ My name is Thomas. Second, who uses two exclamation points? This isn’t middle school, Jonas. Third, fuck Jonas.

I walked away from my laptop so I wouldn’t toss it out the window. I walked to the fridge and poured a big glass of chocolate milk, which I chugged. I walked back to my laptop without wiping off my mouth and sent the trollop a reply.

What makes you think you’ll enjoy working with me?

Jonas responded within minutes.

James told me all about you and sent me your Hungarian Hound story. Hill. Larry. Us!! I gave you some notes on the bottom of the last page. Enjoy!

Two days ago, I didn’t even know Jonas existed. Now, this Swedish strumpet tells me he knows all about me? And he gives me unsolicited notes on something I didn’t say he could read? Who does this asshole think he is?

Look, maybe Jonas is the most talented writer in the world, but I don’t care. I liked what James and I had together. We had our thing. We had a Jonas-less thing.

I fired off an email to James, telling him I wasn’t comfortable sharing my work with people I didn’t know. I fought the urge to write a tirade, asking how in the hell he thought it okay to share my work with his side piece. I kept it short and professional and hit send.

James’s reply was dismissive.

It will be fine, Thomas. You didn’t know me until you did.

His glib truism infuriated me. Sure, I didn’t know James when we began working together, but we were familiar with each other’s work. The Hungarian Hound was a work in progress. If I were ready for strangers to read it, I would have sent it out.

James saw me and Jonas the same way. I wasn’t special to James. I didn’t know how to respond without telling him how he hurt me. My fingers lumbered with chagrin as I typed my reply.

Okay, fine. I’ll give it a try.

I agreed because I didn’t want to seem weird. James was intent on the group. I had one feasible option. I’d have to kill Jonas.

I’d never traveled to another country with the specific intent of murdering someone before. I would have to pack differently. I was also curious to do some sightseeing, but I wasn’t sure there would be enough time.

Finding Jonas was easy. I flew directly to Stockholm. Jonas listed his mailing address on his website. It was his actual physical address. Amateur.

With all the maps, information, and technology available, you can see someone’s front door while you’re on a two-hour flight from London to Stockholm. Of course, the homewrecker had a red door. Why wouldn’t he?

According to a quick internet search, the travel time from Arlanda Airport to the Stockholm suburb Jonas lived in, Midsommarkransen, was about 40 minutes by train. This looked to be easy. I could then hop on a train and be in the city center in no time flat. My murder trip had the makings of a delightful city break once I determined how to do it.

My plan was to spend the afternoon casing Jonas’s place to determine the best way to deal with my problem. I noticed there was a highly rated bistro serving delicious Swedish meatballs within walking distance of Jonas’s front door. After checking out the floozy’s den of iniquity, I could stop by the bistro for a hearty dinner and gather my wits before returning at night to do the deed. Nighttime seemed the most logical for killing someone.

The first leg of the trip couldn’t have gone better. It was an easy flight from Heathrow to Arlanda and then a very convenient train ride into the suburb. I packed light with only a small backpack. I’d purchased a new pair of trainers, which were very comfy and seemed ideal for sneaking around someone’s home. By 2:30 pm, I would be on Jonas’s street.

Midsommarkransen is picturesque! I’m charmed as I look around the streets, but I’m disappointed there’s no snow. I have to scratch Stab Jonas with an icicle off my list of ideas. Bludgeoning may be the way to go.

I pass a lovely little coffee shop on the way and pop in for a decadent cup of hot cocoa. I’m sipping it as I go, staring down at my phone, and intermittently looking around the quaint streets. According to Google Maps, I’m five minutes away from Jonas’s ridiculous red door when I hear a man yell.

“Hey! Tommy Boy! What are you doing here?”

Damn it! I’ve been so busy with my map and my cocoa, I haven’t paid attention to the foot traffic on the street. I look up from my phone to see Jonas walking toward me in a brown suede coat with an enormous smile plastered across his stupid Swedish face. Think fast, Thomas!

“Jonas? What are you doing here?”

Jonas marches into my personal space and gives me a hearty hug. He’s taller than I’d imagined, with a thick head of blondish brown hair. He’s also stout as a lumberjack. His thick biceps crush my lithe arms during our non-consensual hug.

“Ha! I live here, man! Just up the road. Did you come up here to discuss the notes I gave you or are you here to murder me? Haha!”

“Ha! Haha! Ha?”

“Hehe.”

“Ha! What?”

“Seriously, Tommy boy. Why are you here, man?”

“Wow, so you live here? On this road?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“This road?”

“Yeah.”

“Wow, it’s a small world.”

Jonas stares at me expectantly, his smile never diminishing and his happy blue eyes sparkling.

“Well, Jonas, you got me. I’m here to murder you.”

“Haha! I knew it! Ha! No, really, man. Are you here to see me?”

“Heh, you got me again. Do I look like a murderer?”

“Not in those shoes, Tommy boy! Ha!”

What’s wrong with my shoes? These seem more than practical for all kinds of nefarious activity! I went to three stores to find these in the right color, jackass.

“I thought I’d surprise you, Jonas. I had some airline miles and had never been to Sweden and I thought, since we are in a writing group, it would be fun to meet you in person.”

Jonas’s smile broadened. He blinks twice, maybe to process what I’m saying or perhaps to dismiss the absurdity.

“Ah, man, you should have told me but I like it! You’re an action guy. I didn’t know. I agree. It’s good to meet your writing partner. I was going to a café up the road but I see you’ve already been.”

I’m confused until Jonas nods at my cup of cocoa. I probably shouldn’t have stopped for the cocoa and I probably shouldn’t have paid by card. I’m questioning my murder skills.

“So, Tommy boy, why don’t we go have a beer at the pub and get to know our writing buddy?”

Jonas is not my writing partner. He’s the baggage James dragged into our relationship, but if that’s how Jonas wants to think of it — fine. He only has a few hours left on this planet so there’s no reason in my being uncivil.

“A beer sounds fantastic!”

We walk past the café where I bought the cocoa and the barista smiles and waves at Jonas. Several people speak to him in the few blocks we walk to the pub. Jonas is a popular guy. It occurs to me all these people have now seen me with him. I should have thought this through.

We stop at a nondescript spot with a terrace. Walking through the front door, I discover a cozy pub with wooden walls and a large telly in the corner showing a football match. As we walk in, a young woman with long blond hair and tattoos covering her arms greets Jonas by name. Another witness.

We sit at a table on the terrace and the bartender comes out to us. They have a quick exchange in Swedish, then Jonas points to me.

“Lily, this is my friend Thomas from London. He flew here to surprise me, but he might also be here to murder me.”

Lily looks at me, leaning in to inspect my face.

“Yes, Jonas. Your friend looks like he’s a murderer. Or maybe he is just thirsty? Would you like a beer, Thomas?”

I smile meekly. “Yes, heh, I’m a bit thirsty. May I please have a Pilsner Urquell?”

Jonas startles me by slapping the table. “Excellent choice, Tommy boy. Two please, Lily!”

Lily pivots and returns to the bar. Jonas and I share an awkward moment of silence, smiling at one another.

“So, Tommy, I cannot believe you flew here. Amazing! So hilarious.”

I conclude murder is no longer an option. I would be the prime suspect. The only suspect.

“I suppose this seems a little crazy, doesn’t it?”

“I would not say that, but it is unusual. Did my notes help?”

I hadn’t even looked at Jonas’s notes. I didn’t open the attachment and now I’m feeling embarrassed. I should have at least read the notes before planning to kill him.

“I did. I read them and I have a question.”

I fish my phone from my pocket and open the email. I click on the attachment and scroll down to the end where Jonas left his notes.

Tommy Boy! You are a tremendous writer! Your voice is clear and powerful. I laughed hard and then almost cried at the end. Your ending was superb, so nuanced but laden with humanity and emotion. It was beautiful.

The only thing I could even think of changing is making Anna’s motivation clearer. I didn’t relate to her. She seems mercurial, a little distant, and unlikeable. Was she a character you added after the first draft? Everything else is brilliant. This is one of the best things I’ve read in a long time.

Trusting me, someone you don’t know is a bold step. Thank you for telling James to send it to me.

I’m holding the phone, staring at the screen. Jonas is about to say something when Lily returns with our beers. I use the distraction to sift through my thoughts.

Jonas’s comments are thoughtful. Anna was a last-minute addition. I wrote her based on James, an homage to him. Jonas was right. She is mercurial, distant. She doesn’t fit into the story.

I look up when I hear Jonas say ‘skål!’ He’s holding his pint up and waiting for me. I raise my glass and we toast. As I sip the cold beer, I think about how James never leaves me more than a few scattered comments. He’s helpful with the mechanics of my writing, but he’s never given me specific insight into a character or how my stories unfurl. Jonas smiles at me as he sets his glass down.

“So, Tommy boy, what are you thinking?”

I smile at Jonas. It’s a beautiful, sunny day on a lovely street and the beer is cold and good.

“I think your feedback was sincere and spot on. Your words mean a lot to me and I’m excited to have a new writing partner.”

“Me too!”

“And you’re right about Anna. She’s superfluous. I could lose her and the story would move along the same — maybe even better.”

“Yeah, plus she’s kind of boring and a little inconsiderate.”

“Yeah, Jonas. She is. It’s a much better story without her.”

“Good! Then we have our first collaboration.”

I raise my glass and we clink again. “It’s official, Jonas, we are writing partners.”

Official. I had my first official writing partner. I found someone who wants to write with me, who gives excellent feedback. The only question remaining was what to do about James.

I still had some airline miles left.