Once you're inducted into the Order of Writers, you get a tiny porcelain owlet. Every morning, this magical owlet will hoot a prophecy concerning that day's writing.
My own recent prophecies include:
"You will maim your keyboard producing 1,000 words of solid verbal feces." "LOL. Is that a plot? K. You do you." "Today you will be full of glee until you stumble on a dismissive review. You will then crumple into a puddle of WHO-AM-I-WHY-DO-I-DO-THIS. Get a head start on the day and stick the wine in the fridge."
But you also get other cool things from the Order of Writers. A magical lens gets superimposed on your retina. You start seeing the world differently. Ordinary people become a constellation of characters. Rain-soaked trees become a magical calligraphy scrawled onto the world by a giant with bad handwriting. When you become a writer, you start to see the magic behind whatever horrid thing you write. You see that each word is a seed in need of tending before it can become devastatingly wondrous.