I’ve always been attracted to creative endeavors. Not in the sense of creativity, but in the sense of creating something from nothing. The idea of turning a thought into a tangible product attracts me more than anything else. Whether that be someone composing a song, or a director turning an idea birthed in a haze of bourbon and weed smoke into a multimillion-dollar box office hit (looking at you here, Judd Apatow), the ability to create is godlike.

There’s a powerful aspect of legacy behind it as well. Long after the architect dies, evidence of that original thought will live on in the skyline of the city, movies and music will remain in the Internet’s ether forever, and barring any future book-burnings, a writer’s creations will also stand the test of time on their shelves. If the work is good enough, these creators become immortal.

But for me, more of the allure of creating lies in the mystique of it. We see the result, the finished product, but it all starts with an idea, and the source is a vast unknown. I’ve had an idea for an ad come to me weeks after reading the magazine article that first sparked the thought. The brain takes in everything you see, read, notice, and hear, and if you’re lucky, it’ll marinate into the Big Idea that is exactly what you weren’t looking for. But it’ll do this whenever it damn well pleases. (On many a night I’ve had to will myself out of the comfort of my warm bed at 2 in the morning to write down some line that emerged from the creative subconscious before I forget it by morning.)

Writing has the ability to make people cry and laugh, physically react, to a mere string of words on paper. That’s power. To hear 60 seconds of some dialogue and be so moved as to have an emotional connection is to be taken hostage by its writing. Scriptwriters, stand-up comedians, copywriters—these people have the power of mind control. That’s why I want to be a writer.

That, plus you can drink at work.