“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.
“So you think I should tone it down?” I asked. I admit I was apprehensive about the whole chapter, but on the other hand I was quite proud of the sweat-stained prose I handed over to her.
“You know that scene in ‘This Is Spinal Tap’ where Nigel Tufnel points out his amplifier goes up to eleven?” she replies. “He’s overstating his capacity to understand the underlying principles in the belief he is going one better than all the other guitarists. But in truth, he’s a fucking idiot.”
“You think I’m overstating my understanding of shagging?” My inner machismo fingered its turbo-button.
“Have you ever TRIED picking up a woman by her ankles?” she asked while cocking an eyebrow and letting her mouth purse into that lopsided, judgemental pose she adopted when seeking to explain I am not that far removed from being a simpleton. “No, don’t answer. I know your male pride will force you into recounting several examples, while your chiropractor will testify otherwise.”
“My ability to embroider my sexual exploits in an interesting way is one of my more redeeming features, I thought.” I sounded whiney and defensive, “But if you think it’s too much, we can cut it.”
“Can I call you Nigel, or do you prefer imbecile?” She picked up a sheaf of pages, each of which was covered in her neat, uniform script. “These go up to eleven. They need to be between three and five.”
Then she sorted through her pile of papers, pulled four more sheets out and said, “These need to be hosed down with freezing water.”
“Are there any bits you like?”
“Oh yes, the last three pages have great ice cream descriptions,” she handed me the final few paragraphs. “Although ‘panting’ is a cliché. You should drop that.”
“So, what you’re saying is I should change my hero’s love interest into a platonic interest. Maybe they could play chess or something?”
“Don’t be smart,” she replied, “it makes your face twist into a grotesque caricature of a real author.”
“Okay,” I conceded, “I’ll have a shoot-out instead.”
“That’s a good boy,” she answered, “I’ll make a writer of you if it kills me.”