It’s 4:30 in the morning. I should be tired. Instead, I am excited to turn on my computer and begin writing.

I sit in my pajamas, looking over my list of travel writing tasks—an article due to a publication, interview questions to answer for a blog, an assignment for a writing class—and struggle to determine which to tackle first. The struggle is not that I don’t want to do any of these tasks, but that none of them are tasks at all and I want to completely immerse myself in each and every one of them.

It is Tuesday, one of my two days off from my eight-to-five job. I am living my dream part-time.

Just over a week ago I’d punched the time clock, convinced I would always be a slave to Corporate America. My cubicle was spacious enough to meet the fire code but tight enough to squeeze the life out of me.

“When will you be back?” My boss stood in the doorway of my cubicle, her hands on her curvaceous hips, her lips pursed.

I took my time pulling my ear buds out and paused my MP3 player. “A week from next Wednesday.” I hesitated, debating whether to ask the next question. “Do you need me to come back on that Tuesday instead?”

“No. We’ll be fine without you.” She turned on her heels and left.

I would be fine without her too, but there was just too much riding on giving up a salary job in this economy.

A glass of orange juice sits next to the blank screen on my laptop. While most people dread this situation, I view it as an opportunity. I can tackle any project I want in any order I want … in my pajamas if I choose. I can leave my personal office and take a break for a bowl of cereal. The freedom of working from home is that real.

Within 72 hours of being confronted by my boss, I pulled my car into the dusty Nevada desert known as Black Rock City, home to Burning Man. Most people assume this festival is a drug-induced hippie orgy of sorts, and I was the first to admit my own apprehension. What was I trying to prove by being here by myself in the middle of a dust storm?

My tent and the wind fought against me as I cursed and fought back tears. My greatest attempts to stay at least moderately clean were soon covered by the fine playa dust. I fell asleep crying.

Despite my pre-conceived notions, I settled into a torn-up lounge chair the next day and introduced myself to a group of nomads who had gathered for happy hour. To my surprise, they turned their attention to me and asked questions about my life instead of treating me like the shell I’d become at work. I asked questions in return and discovered that many of them traveled full-time and found work when needed to continue their travels.

Their stories spanned the globe. Their laughter was real. These people were genuinely happy. I found myself longing for the freedom they had, if only my writing could sustain me and I could convince myself to live without the safety blanket of a 401k or company-vested healthcare.

Two days later I joined a guy in our camp dancing atop an RV. The sun had dropped and Black Rock City was alive with a symphony of techno music and neon lights. I’d fallen into the randomness of Burning Man and began to move to the music, careful not to fall over the edge.

“Have you ever ridden a bike naked?”

“What?” I wasn’t sure if I heard him correctly.

“I said, have you ever ridden a bike naked?”

“No.” Obviously not.

“Me either. Let’s ride bikes naked!”

“Why?”

“Why not?”

That was a good question. Why not? What was stopping me? Half of Black Rock City hung out in the buff. I pondered the thought for a moment.

“I don’t know why not.”

“Then let’s do it.”

I send off my article and am tackling the questions for the guest travel blog when the phone rings.

“This is the International Food, Wine and Travel Writers’ Association. I wanted to let you know that you’ve been awarded our top travel writing scholarship prize. You’ll be joining us on a fully paid seven-night conference cruise in the Caribbean in January. Congratulations.”

Just like the night I danced on the RV, I ask the woman to repeat herself, and she again says that I’m the winner of a travel writing scholarship.

I hang up and begin a new writing project: my two-week notice.