There’s a particular sensation that happens to you when you write. When you do art. It is almost sexual, and like all best sensations – it doesn’t last long. It is here and then it’s gone, and you try to cram all your skill and your talent and your stamina into that indecently brief 2-hour span (that could make you wake up with spittle dried on your face). That is a moment of rare creative frenzy that makes it all worth it. Failures and writer’s blocks and bad moods. Everything might as well fall away, crawl into its pathetic hole and die.
You can do anything. You don’t type, your fingers do, possessed by a million quicksilver signals oozing from your brain. Each metaphor a handjob, each epithet a blowjob. This, brilliantly, is the way Bret Easton Ellis writes all the fucking time. It’s like he managed to inflate that moment, that sensation, into chapters and novels. It’s the way best books are written. It’s the way American Psycho operates.