First let me make one thing clear before I get hate mail: I have nothing against vegans. Nothing could be further from the truth. I admire people who are capable of accomplishing what I myself can only manage one day a week. I too would like to completely forgo animal products, except I lack the willpower. I can even understand the motives driving Franz, whose depictions of the modern milk production process were unfortunately not made up in the least. Though of course I have no sympathy for the methods he uses in wanting to change the situation.
And let me anticipate another question, one I was often asked during my research: no, I don’t suffer from a fear of flying. Concerns about flying might be a better way of putting it. I don’t break out in a sweat upon take-off, but I can certainly imagine far more reasonable things than having myself launched thousands of metres above ground in a tube speeding over a thousand kilometres per hour through ice-cold air masses. Like Mats Krüger, I simply don’t think that humans are made for it. And after landing I often wish I could just plop down on the tarmac cross-legged like an Native American and wait for my soul that – unlike my body – wasn’t able to keep up even remotely that fast.
Of course I know that more people die yearly from swallowing parts of ballpoint pens than in a whole decade of aeroplane crashes. Yet such sober statistics don’t ever pacify me that easily, especially when I start considering just how many of those unlucky ballpoint pen victims might’ve been gnawing on their writing utensils during in-flight turbulence… but, whatever.
Even though I don’t have to deal with panic attacks myself, I still sympathise with all those people whose hearts start racing well before we’ve left the tarmac. Such as the young woman who grabbed the hand of the man sitting next to her right before taking off from Munich for Berlin and said to the stranger: ‘I don’t know you, but would you please squeeze my hand? Before I start screaming.’
I managed to catch this conversation because I was sitting right on the other side of the very man the woman had chosen for emotional support. The poor guy was looking a little overwhelmed, so he tried defusing the situation with a joke. It started with: ‘A Bavarian, a Swabian and a Berliner are sitting in a plane…’ (It really did happen, I swear.)
I never did get to hear how the joke ended because the lady started to cry, and in that moment it must’ve become all too clear to her hand holder that it wasn’t such a wise idea trying to tell an aeroplane joke to someone with aviophobia.
*
No, that was not the situation that gave birth to this novel. Unlike usual, I can’t point to a concrete cause for why I took on the subject. At readings, people always ask me how I find my ideas. I always try explaining somehow, but the undeniable truth is: the ideas find me, and it’s usually after I’ve started writing. I might discover the inspiration for a subject in real life. Yet my characters only start coming alive once I’m at the computer working. And I often feel less like the one creating their experiences than like an observer who’s frequently just as surprised at how the story unfolds. Which is also why I don’t have much choice in the stories I want to tell.
Sometimes I get emails asking: ‘Sebastian, don’t you ever want to write something besides thrillers?’
When every publisher rejected my first-ever manuscript on the grounds that a psychological thriller from Germany would have no chance on the market, I thought to myself: ‘Well, look at that – what I was writing was a psychological thriller.’
I also found it pretty odd that psychological thrillers weren’t something I read much back then. I’d never given much thought to the genre, preferring to just write the kind of story I myself would like to read – and was hoping that I wouldn’t end up being the only one.
Recently I often get asked how long a book takes me and how I manage to write ‘so much’.
In June of 2017, I posted a little about that on Facebook:
Each of my books is different. I don’t write series or serials with recurring main characters but rather individual stories that are always self-contained. This increases the chances of not repeating myself and falling into the same pattern. But there is also the danger of disappointing readers who’d like to see a sequel in the style of such and such.
As a reader myself, I used to always think that the reason I didn’t like a book from a certain author was because the person wrote too much. That the author didn’t take enough time. Until I too became an author and had to learn something about myself: my impression of the writer’s profession and their daily work was completely false.
I thought a thriller took years of mental groundwork, during which time it was best if I retreated to some lonely island and pondered, a lot, until I’d finally gathered together all those ideas for bringing the characters and plot to life. This may be a good formula for some of my fellow writers. For me, though, a story simply doesn’t arise solely through contemplation. The ideas, twists and aha-moments come to me almost exclusively while writing. So I have to write to be creative.
This has always been the case. Yet earlier, at the beginning of my career, hardly anyone had noticed that I’d actually published four thrillers in just under two years (Die Therapie, Das Amokspiel, Das Kind, and Der Seelenbrecher).
Today I’m sometimes told that I should return to how I started and ‘take more time’. The fact was I had to write far, far more obsessively back then because I still had a regular day job on the radio at the time and was only able to work on my ideas on weekends, on vacation and after work.
Today, all thanks to you, my readers, I have much more time and can concentrate exclusively on the writing for months. Unlike many of my colleagues, some of whom also publish every year despite working full-time as translators, teachers or in a bank. I highly admire this creative energy and discipline of theirs, which often spans many years.
I also had to learn that being an author is not a conventional job where I can set my own hours. By the same token, I can’t just say to myself: ‘Sebastian, today you’re writing a comedy.’ The idea finds the author and determines how it’s executed, not the other way around.
It sounds esoteric, but many fellow writers have confirmed this to me. We authors often have no idea exactly where we get our ideas from. All we know is that there’s something inside of us, an urge that forces us to stay at our desks.
Writing books isn’t a made-to-order product but rather an act of self-realisation. I feel very fortunate to be able to sit down at my desk every day, just like a musician who has to play music every day and an athlete who has to get out on the field every day. And, yes, I admit it: I’m a little manic in this regard. When I’m ‘in the zone’, I write every day, including on my birthday and Christmas.
The formula ‘more time = better book’ is certainly not wrong when it comes to the care required for carrying out research and for revising the first draft. But, apart from the fact that I practically suffer from writer’s block compared to the admirable output and range of some other authors (Markus Heitz, Martin Walser, Stephen King), there does exist evidence to the contrary. I recently had to wait over five years for a new book by one of my favourite thriller authors who’d previously published annually – and was left a bit disappointed.
By the way: I have to set my own deadlines apart from the publisher because otherwise I would never deliver. I’m never completely satisfied with any of my books, and if I hadn’t had a deadline back in 2006 I’d still be sitting there today working away on my first one, Die Therapie
Roland Emmerich once said that a story was never finished. All you can do is let it go. Keeping that in mind, I hope to be able to send many more books your way, even if two books per year will probably remain the exception in future.
I can’t promise that these thrillers will suit your taste or even compare to your favourite story so far. If they do, then it’s more fluke than anything, because I’m trying not to repeat myself. (Which I just did, see above 😉).
What I can solemnly and faithfully promise you, though, is that each of my stories comes from the heart, and always with my great expectation that I’m reaching yours as well.
So I keep on writing, on until that point when someone breaks down the scenery, claps their hands and says: ‘My dear Herr Fitzek, the experiment is now over. Over these last eleven years we’ve let you believe that you’re a writer. How does it feel now to learn that the truth is you’re just another patient at the Park Clinic?’
Until then, I’m always happy to receive your messages inside my cell, at the following address:
*
So, after thanking you, the most important people in an author’s life, I’ll now work through the rest before they get cranky with me again. From Droemer Knaur publishing house, they include: first, the boss of it all, Hans-Peter Übleis, and his wonderful team – Josef Röckl, Bernhard Fetsch, Steffen Haselbach, Katharina Ilgen, Monika Neudeck, Bettina Halstrick, Beate Riedel, Hanna Pfaffenwimmer, Sibylle Dietzel, Ellen Heidenreich, Daniela Meyer, Greta Frank and Helmut Henkensiefken. I have to mention Beate, Ellen, Daniela and Helmut in particular, since they’ve outdone themselves once again in marketing, production and cover design (in my opinion).
*
My editor Regine Weisbrod should be entitled to a stress allowance for her efforts on this manuscript because she actually does suffer from a fear of flying. It didn’t stop her from meticulously breaking down each sentence like an Airbus during maintenance. The same for Carolin Graehl, my other invaluable editor. You two manage to keep me on course again and again, motivate me to fly higher, and save me from any crash landings.
*
Marc Haberland (a good friend of mine, who only let me mention his last name for the first time in Seelenbrecher) visited one of those aviophobia seminars talked about in this book because of his fear of flying. He provided me with so much interesting and useful info that I could barely process it all. For example there’s the fact that most people’s claustrophobic horror starts at boarding when they have to walk down that narrow tentacle-like airlock connecting the gate to the plane. (At which point things always get jammed up and you’re asking yourself how many people can actually fit inside this people-silencer before it starts buckling.) This is the reason why some of these giant fingers have windows or are made entirely of Plexiglas.
Marc also gave me the tip that you should tighten all your muscles just before take-off. A conscious and controlled whole-body cramp apparently tricks the brain, which can’t concentrate on several abnormal circumstances at the same time. A more sophisticated version of this trick called ‘Jacobson’s progressive muscle relaxation’ is recommended for anxiety disorders in general. You might want to try it out when needed – it should definitely work better than an airline crash joke from the passenger next to you.
By the way, Marc’s seminar ended with an incident that once again proves that life itself writes the most incredible and unlikely stories. On their graduation flight, the plane entered a state of such heavy turbulence that not only the seminar participants but even the most hard-boiled passengers began to scream. The pilot admitted afterwards that he’d rarely experienced anything that severe in his career. Marc said that his ‘worst comes to worst’ experience nevertheless prevented him from claiming the money-back guarantee. But he was probably the exception among seminar participants.
*
As always, I wasn’t looking to write non-fiction. Yet many details that did make it into the novel are true. The issue of the safest versus the most unsafe seat on the plane is a matter of dispute, and a lot of research has been carried out, with the overwhelming assessment that the rear seats have the highest chances of survival. And yes, there was indeed a crash test in which the first seven rows were completely destroyed and seat 7A was ripped from the plane. Even the incredible incident involving Juliane Koepcke actually happened. Compulsory smartphone users like me are not particularly enthusiastic about the news that some airlines let you surf the net and make phone calls with your phones. That final oasis of peace is now gone. And, of course, psychological tests for crew and pilots have advanced beyond the discussion stage, along with more extensive testing.
Yet I also do not describe in any fully precise way how the main characters in this book could have actually caused a plane to crash, of course, just as I also define things vaguely on purpose when it comes to suicide methods. I want to entertain, not create instructions.
*
Speaking of research: unlike for my novel Passenger 23, where I had to spend months searching for a ship captain not afraid of appearing to speak ill of the cruise industry, I had no problem finding a knowledgeable adviser for this story. My old schoolfriend Marc Peus shared his experiences as a pilot with me and read all relevant passages. So if you’re about to board a plane in Europe and a Captain Peus welcomes you, then you can relax and enjoy the flight, because this guy is the best! (Or you can head up to the front and hit him over the head with the book if you didn’t like it. Then you’ll be arrested, and I’ll have one less critic!)
I would also like to thank Captain Frank Hellberg, the managing director and owner of Air Service Berlin, who has advised me for Amok, Abgeschnitten and other books – and whom I forgot to invite to the Noah premiere as a reward. I apologised to him for that, regrettably, because it was only then that he even noticed. It won’t happen again – my apology, that is.
*
I would like to thank my manager, Manuela Raschke, and would like to make an urgent request: Take a vacation for once! Everybody says you work way too much, Manu. And I really can do without your excellent, untiring and super-professional support for a while. Say, a day or two. Christmas and New Year’s Eve. That’s when your mother Barbara can step in, whom I shouldn’t forget here any more than your husband Kalle. I’m thanking you for your help, but also for understanding that working with a psychological thriller author brings certain peculiarities along with it – which my wonderful PR agent Sabrina Rabow has unfortunately forbidden me to talk about. Seriously, though: Sabrina, you deserve my deepest thanks for your advice, your support and years of loyalty.
*
My list of indispensable people continues with my favourite mother-in-law Petra, who, like Jörn ‘Stolli’ Stollmann, Markus Meier and Thomas Zorbach, sees to such obsolete media as the internet while this cutting-edge early adopter is still using the fax machine.
*
I would like to thank my favourite Bavarian, Franz Xaver Riebel, who once again served as literary taste-tester. And my friends Arno Müller, Thomas Koschwitz, Jochen Trus, Stephan Schmitter, Michael Treutler, Simon Jäger and Ender Thiele.
*
By mentioning the name of this next man I’m only making his life harder, since statistically speaking every other German has an idea for a novel. And Roman Hocke is the best man for finding a publisher, (hey, he even placed me…) supported at his literary agency AVA International by Claudia von Hornstein, Gudrun Strutzenberger, Cornelia Petersen-Laux, Lisa Blenninger and Markus Michalek.
*
Every now and then at a reading someone asks if they can take a photo with me. Usually there’s a man standing in the background looking like someone just stole his schnitzel: this is my true friend and tour manager Christian Meyer from C&M Sicherheit, with whom I’ve been travelling so long that many people consider us to be an old couple. Which we are, by the way.
*
Dear Sabine, I hope I was able to incorporate all your medical notes. Along with my brother Clemens, my sister-in-law is one of my regular medical advisers. I wanted to thank both of them by giving them a cruise vacation. I then wrote Passenger 23, just in time for them to accept the gift.
*
Of course, as always, I would like to thank all the booksellers, librarians and their staff.
The success of internet retailers can never be rolled back. And it would be highly cynical of me to condemn them, since I’m a beneficiary of them like many other authors. In fact, my career wouldn’t have been possible without the internet because my first book was not readily available on physical bookstore shelves back in 2006. And yet I urge you to support your local bookstore. There are countless reasons for this, such as the fact that desolate inner cities do no one any good. Let me mention just one more thing:
If you like an author so much that you want to meet him or her in person at a reading, where do you think this will happen? On the internet, or in a bookshop?
Please don’t misunderstand – I do not believe in demonising large online merchants. You don’t have to radically alter your shopping habits. You’ll be doing your part simply by visiting, every so often, the spot where books feel most comfortable: next to their own fellow species on a well-organised shelf in the knowledgeable and accommodating local bookstore of your choice. But don’t be alarmed if I also happen to be there.
Thank you for your time as always!
Lots of love, auf Wiederlesen (‘till the next read’)
Yours truly,
Sebastian Fitzek
Berlin, feels like April though it’s already 6 July 2017
PS: The best and favourite one gets saved for last:
A reader recently asked me how my wife could sleep calmly next to ‘someone like me’. The thing is, my wife’s the one who watches Hostel or Saw for relaxation and who’ll always nab first prize for the bloodiest costume in any Halloween contest in Berlin. Thank you, Sandra, for being both so unconventional and loving that you put up with me without resorting to weapons. Most of the time, anyway.