Charlie Newton

In 1999 a girlfriend I'd known since junior high sat me down in a Belfast bar and said, "You're an asshole. Life's not an audition; win the rat race and you're still a rat." Shocked at her language, but being a bit impulsive, I drank a ninth Guinness, staggered off the grid, and began writing full-time.

Eight years and eight novels later Simon and Schuster publishes CALUMET CITY. Piece of cake—just live on rejection, credit-card debt, and self doubt; get a divorce, and move to Africa—hell, it's cheap, dangerous, and beautiful—why not?

Then one March day the sun comes up over Table Mountain—super agent Simon Lipskar says he loves your book, publishers in four languages agree, really talented women in NYC skyscrapers have you over for sales/marketing conferences. Long lunches with the Publisher ensue. People with jobs return your emails. You're given a website; girls at the gym can google when you boast that you're a writer.

Do I recommend this life? The Peter Pan Scholarship? Absolutely, if you're voyeur-curious. You can be a dentist for a day but don't have to spend six years in school; same for cops or robbers—generally you won't die or go to prison when the story's over. Living small has to be okay, and I do, in Cape Town, but travel around the world every year writing the next novel from the country where the characters or story spills out of Chicago. Patti Black says I'm homeless; I prefer "gypsy;" it's got fewer letters and Cher looks good in the clothes.

Big, huge, enormous thanks to every one of you—reader/character/publishing person—for making this possible. Hope you continue to enjoy each trip as much as I intend to. If we meet on the road I'll buy the first Guinness.