The Writer I Was Trying To Catch Thought He Was Chasing Me

I recently had a confession to make to my friend Edward.

His writing had become so sharp, funny, and layered that I was beginning to wonder whether I could keep up with him. I admired what he was doing, but a tiny insecure voice inside me kept whispering that he was pulling ahead.

When I finally admitted how I felt, Edward started laughing.

If you have ever heard his laugh, you know it is impossible not to join him, even when you don’t understand the joke.

Then he told me something I never expected.

He had been thinking exactly the same thing about me.

My Editor Told Me To Keep Digging

Edward and I met four years ago when he was an editor for a Medium publication featuring true crime.

I was writing for the publication, and he immediately became one of my strongest supporters. He understood true crime as more than a chronological list of horrible things one person did to another.

He taught me to keep peeling back the layers until there were no more layers left to peel.

When I thought I had completed my research, Edward encouraged me to look again. What was missing? What didn’t make sense? Which detail had everyone else accepted without questioning? Was there another mystery hiding beneath the obvious one?

Edward later became my editor at a history publication, where those lessons became even more important. History often arrives polished and neatly packaged, as if everyone involved understood what was happening while they were living through it.

Real history is rarely that cooperative.

The deeper I researched, the more contradictions I found. Edward taught me not to fear those complications. That is often where the real story is waiting.

He Never Made Me Feel Foolish

A good editor corrects your grammar, notices missing information, and saves you from embarrassing mistakes.

A great editor makes you want to become a better writer.

Edward never made me feel foolish for missing something. He did not stand above me, waving his editorial pen like a weapon. He supported me, challenged me, and somehow made digging through another dozen sources feel like an exciting treasure hunt instead of additional work.

He was loving when I needed encouragement and honest when a story required more.

That combination is rare.

Writers are vulnerable creatures, even when we pretend otherwise. We send pieces of ourselves into the world and act casual while secretly wondering whether anyone will read them, understand them, or care.

Edward understood that because he was a writer too.

Over time, our conversations moved beyond edits, headlines, and unanswered mysteries. We became friends.

Then, somewhere along the way, he became family.

My Brother From Another Mother

Edward and I are very different people.

We come from different generations. He lives far away, so ours is not the kind of friendship built around meeting for coffee or dropping by each other’s homes.

Our lives have followed different paths. Edward is gay. I have always considered myself a traditional straight cisgender woman.

On paper, someone might wonder what we could possibly have in common.

Quite a lot, as it turns out.

We both love mysteries and magic. We can discuss soap operas without apology. We share an interest in astrology and Tarot cards, subjects capable of launching conversations that travel in seventeen directions before either of us remembers where we started.

He also has an extraordinary sense of humor.

Edward can make me laugh when I am frustrated, discouraged, or taking myself much too seriously. His own laugh may be one of my favorite sounds because it is wholehearted. It does not politely enter a room. It takes possession of it.

Underneath the humor, however, we recognize something deeper in one another.

Edward had a very difficult early childhood. So did I.

Our experiences were not identical, but pain does not always require an exact translation. Sometimes you recognize another survivor because they understand the things you do not have to explain.

I relate to Edward’s struggles. I understand the strength it took for him to become the loving, funny, creative man he is today.

He feels like my brother from another mother.

Friendship Should Open Your Mind

Some people seek friendships only with those who reflect their existing beliefs and experiences.

I would find that terribly boring.

Edward has opened my mind to people, ideas, and experiences outside my own life. He has helped me see the world through another set of eyes. I hope I have done the same for him.

That does not mean we always agree. Real friendship is not an extended exercise in nodding politely.

It means our differences are safe with each other.

I can ask questions. He can challenge me. We can approach something from entirely different directions and still meet somewhere in the middle, usually after several detours and at least one discussion about astrology.

Edward did not enter my life to confirm everything I already believed.

He helped make my world larger.

When The Student Becomes A Colleague

I still sometimes think of Edward as the editor who taught me how to uncover another layer.

But our relationship has changed.

He is no longer simply the experienced editor guiding me through true crime and history. He is a writer whose work I read with admiration. His voice has become stronger, funnier, and unmistakably his own.

That is why I began worrying that he had raced ahead of me.

I was comparing my private doubts with his finished work. I could see his talent, but I could not see the uncertainty that accompanied it.

Edward was doing the same thing.

He saw my published stories, research, and growing confidence. He did not see every moment I stared at a draft wondering whether I had lost whatever ability I once possessed.

We were each standing behind the other, thinking we were being left behind.

The truth was much better.

We had been growing together.

Writers Need Other Writers

Writing can be painfully solitary.

We spend hours alone with our thoughts, then place the finished work in front of strangers who may praise it, criticize it, ignore it, or completely misunderstand what we were trying to say.

Statistics do not provide companionship. Views cannot laugh with you. Followers cannot always tell when you are discouraged.

Writers need people who understand the peculiar emotional weather of creating something from nothing.

We need someone who will tell us to keep peeling back the layers. Someone who believes another mystery is still hiding underneath. Someone who celebrates when we find it.

We also need someone who laughs when we confess that we are afraid we cannot catch up, then admits he has been trying to catch us.

Four years ago, I found an editor.

I also found a teacher, fellow writer, trusted friend, and the brother I never knew I needed.

Edward may still believe he is chasing me.

I still believe I am chasing him.

Perhaps that is why we both keep becoming better writers.