The summer of 1978, I turned 18, previously convicted for holding up a snack-bar. Though I happily succeeded three times before. Incidentally, it was always the same snack-bar that I raided. Call it stupid, I always wore the same mask, too–a clown mask. The federal prosecutor, a former cheerleader, was asking for a drastic penalty, but thanks to the universe and the merci of the judge, I was soon out on parole. The parole luckily leads me to abandon the criminal career, and to my decision to lead a decent life. This was my serious development proposal, but man, one has so many serious development proposals, right? No fiddles, no drugs, no hookers.

In the summer of 1978 I turned 18. Fresh out on probation and with a new past time. I heavily experimented with girls that cost me nothing apart from endless patience. Exactly like Belgian French fries. The very special concerning Belgian fries are not the potatoes, but the patience in preparation. Yes, man, 1978, at this time Eduard Zimmermann tried hard, with the TV series Aktenzeichen XY Ungelöst (File Number XY - Undisclosed) to solve undisclosed cases, crimes, and finally tried to arrest the gangsters. I tell you, this TV manhunt series at those times was a world-premiere. Three years later I had the first lover’s grief, because my girlfriend, my brassbound relation for more than one year, split and was actually speeding away with a dude that was later man hunted by that Zimmermann. A phase in my life followed, finding respect and honor in our social environment due to my brilliant alcoholic escapades. I only and endlessly listened to punk, heavy metal and other demonic noise, all deriving from the contemporary zeitgeist. Lemmy Kilmister, singer, bassist and head of Motörhead, furthermore a passionate atheist, would have been proud of me. His disbelief was shown in every passage of his texts, what German fans never seemed to understand, but they never understood his vocal experiments anyway.

When I survived the crisis, I started to write successful detective stories under the pseudonym Ron B. Dawn, easy, sure enough, due to my very own dark past. Already at that time, I was thrilled to write about the perfect crime. A crime, the perpetrator being intelligent and acting so dexterous, that he could never be found out, no matter how hard any detective would try. Even Hercule Poirot, the French master detective, would reach his limits. A crime that makes the perpetrator so rich that he is set up for a lifetime. For me personally, a million would be complete, I would assume. Unfortunately I couldn’t come up with anything adequate up till now. I often considered and fantasized about having my comeback in the criminal milieu, to become inspired, but I would rather not. Instead, I’m going to the Baltic tomorrow early in the morning for a few days, in the hope of getting some suitable ideas. Only time will tell what adventures will arise. During the outward journey, I will definitely experience new adventures on the train, because a journey on Deutsche Bahn is not without its challenges. The nonsubdivided passenger compartments are a chaotic concert hall where passengers are offered oriental ringtones and exotic languages at no extra charge.

Stories that someone puts down on paper relate to their personality. Show me your story and I tell you who you are. My writings started out, I mentioned it earlier, in the beginning of the Eighties and Dan Brown was still a no name in Germany. Becoming famous later, I came to the conclusion, that his name was an anagram of my pseudonym, actually.

For me, there is only two kinds of people, the man of action, and the prattler. Prattlers being the ones that only shoot their big fat mouth, but never get anything done. Never just plain roll up their sleeves and muck in. Arrogant critics, for example, belong in that category and are horrible people for me. Only with their comments, they are able to tear any project into pieces. But any creative works are hardly ever accomplished by those darn babblings of critics. But to jabber and beef around, and to capitalize their words, these parasites are predestined for. Clearly, to see what spirit’s child those people are. They are characterized by a sick attitude and want to lead a comfortable life. The artist does not need any critic, but the critic depends on the art. Often enough, it would be much better, when people would police themselves and their tongues, instead of criticizing, to know everything better and to always have the last word.