“There’s lots of thrusting going on…” Jacquie said, letting the sentence hang in mid-air. My beta reader does not pull punches, even though her image is the archetype of diminutive, floral printed, butter-would-not-melt, she is actually a ball of literary savagery.

She was referring to the first love scene in my Work In Progress, which has reached the point where the hero is shacked up with his female interest, they are surrounded by antagonists and need to dig deep to find a route to their goal. This is the moment where the hero puts down his gun, bares his chest and goes for his secondary objective. Thrusting ensues.

“The thing is, white men can’t jump, dogs can’t sing, and middle-aged authors can’t write sex,” she said. Continue reading →