I was skirting the edge of a glacier in the southern highlands of Iceland when the LSD began to kick in.

Steam rose from pockets in the volcanic hillsides and an eggy funk pervaded the air. Real chthonic shit. And the path was getting steeper. Dust and gravel scuffling under boot treads.

I was here to lose myself in Iceland with my friends—to shake loose from some unnameable melancholy that had taken root. Reset my psyche and return home refreshed, with new ideas for the bar.

Behind us and far below, the canyon maze of jagged obsidian guarded the approach to a steep path up the ridgeline under a rich blue sky scantily laced with clouds. Ahead of us lay an alien realm the likes of which we’d never seen.

A mild anxiety gripped me, and I realized I was thinking about my coworkers back home, setting up the restaurant for a busy Friday, while here I was gallivanting in Iceland. What if they —

I have to quit.

It struck me like a bolt from the blue. I had to leave my cozy bartending job and take the plunge into fulltime freelance writing. Now or never.

Eyes wide I stood staring into the void like a mirror. Invisible talons loosed from my heart and an enormous weight lifted from my shoulders. It all made so much sense. I had to quit. The idea bloomed in my soul with a vigor I hadn’t felt in a long time.

A month or so later, after an eye-melting campaign of reading, research, and planning, I almost felt ready enough to commit to my new future and quit my lucrative, high-profile, enviable job for the uncertain writing life I was meant to live.

So at the end of shift just before the clock struck my birthday, I closed down the bar and poured two shots of Santa Maria al Monte—my boss’s favorite elixir—and told him it was time for me to pass the torch and retire from bartending.

Okay, he said. When?

No anger, no withering screed about responsibility…not even a frown. Where was the climactic clash? Where the drama?

He nodded and left and I finished closing. My heart stopped pounding. The traffic-light outside flicked through its usual cycle. I turned off the overheads, turned on the alarm, and twisted the key in the lock as I had a thousand times before.

Only this time I’d taken the leap. Committed to the dream. It was official.

Time to start the show.