I have always loved books. I know — every writer says that. But I clearly remember the first book I ever wrote. I was five years old at the time. I don’t remember what it was about, but I do remember that the cover was green and the amazing feeling of holding a book I had created myself.

As a teenager, I was a regular at the local library. At the time, history — and in particular Egyptology — was my great passion. The poor librarians would take detours when they saw me coming, knowing I would ask them to track down obscure old titles from archives across the country. I wrote short stories and poems for the school magazine, always with dark, anxiety-filled themes, often centred on death. I read Sartre, Camus and Bukowski. When I travelled to England at eighteen to work as an au pair, my suitcase was filled with books rather than clothes. My mother even bought a sturdier case so I could fit them all in.

In the early 2000s, a wave of female Swedish crime writers made their debuts. The so-called “Queens of Swedish Crime” became a phenomenon, and I devoured novels by Ninni Schulman, Viveca Sten, Mari Jungstedt and Camilla Läckberg. That some of these women would later become my colleagues was something I could never have imagined at the time.

While on parental leave with my first child, I began work on my first novel — a crime story set in my hometown of Örnsköldsvik, and in particular on Ulvön, an island where I had spent many childhood summers. I had no idea how the publishing world worked. I knew no authors and had no understanding of how or where to submit a manuscript. The publishing industry felt overwhelming and intimidating.

Through online writers’ forums, I gradually learned which publishers specialised in crime fiction and who represented the established authors. Even so, it took years before I dared to submit my manuscript. The turning point came after a public event with the author Sofie Sarenbrandt. From the audience, I asked how one goes about getting a manuscript read and published. She congratulated me on having written a novel and encouraged me to send it in. It was a brief exchange, but it gave me the courage to try.

The manuscript circulated among publishers for almost two years. I received positive feedback and met several editors, but in the end it fell at the final hurdle. After eight years of writing and two years of waiting, the rejection was devastating. I put the manuscript aside and started studying to become an editor so I could continue working with writing, even if it wasn’t my own. I still work as a freelance editor when time allows.

Then, unexpectedly, something happened. My ex-husband, who ran a renovation company, happened by chance to work in the home of the author Lina Bengtsdotter. He mentioned that his wife was an aspiring writer and asked if she might offer some advice. A few weeks later, on my fortieth birthday, I woke to a message from Bengtsdotter congratulating me and suggesting we meet for dinner. By then, I had given up hope of publication, but I was both nervous and excited to meet a working author. Over dinner, she told me about a newly founded publishing house, Strawberry, to where her former editor had moved, and encouraged me to submit my manuscript there. After several weeks of hesitation, I revisited the manuscript with fresh, professional eyes and rewrote it extensively. I sent it to the editor she had recommended, as well as to four other publishers.

Twenty-four hours later, Strawberry said yes. Within two weeks, four more offers followed.

That was only the beginning, but early on I realised something important: female crime writers support one another. We compete for the same media space, interviews and readers, yet there is no antipathy. Perhaps because crime fiction has long been a male-dominated field, there is a strong culture of generosity among female writers. We are not rivals; we are colleagues.

Over the years, I have built close relationships with many Swedish female crime writers. We meet for dinners, share experiences, attend conferences, read each other’s manuscripts and exchange contacts — from police officers to forensic pathologists — who can help with research.

One of my strongest memories comes from my first year as a published author. At a party during the Gothenburg Book Fair, my publisher introduced me to Camilla Läckberg and said, “This is Lina Areklew. She’s going to be the new you.” I wanted the ground to swallow me, but she found it amusing. She was warm and encouraging, congratulating me on my publishing deal.

Years later, she invited me, along with hundreds of Swedish female crime writers, to a lavish celebration dinner marking her twenty years as an author—a fitting tribute to the supportive and collaborative spirit among women in the genre.

In the Dark is published by Canelo Crime, you can find it here.