Anyone who’s still paying attention to my opinions at this point knows that I like details. I like them to make sense, and I like them to bear more than a passing resemblance to reality as I understand it. So if a cop is involved in a fatal shooting and gets shoved back into duty without investigation and counseling, I will roll my eyes. I might frighten the cat if the virginal MC deepthroats Mr. Baseballbatforacock first time out. And if some weird but hugely important element is thrown into the story for two paragraphs and then completely ignored, I will make a note, and the pen might go all the way through the paper and into the desk.
Sometimes the bounce is a fact. It might hit the WTF button, and then the cat spends the next half hour under the couch wondering if I’ve lost my mind. It might hit the Huh?? button, and then I go looking.
If the author puts a 60 pound saddle on an eighteen year old horse; I will check how much saddles weigh. Because now I think the author’s cruel. The heaviest cutting saddle I could find was 50 pounds, and most of them were lighter than that. Maybe it exists and has an iron tree, but I’ve already been bounced out of the story.
If a character who couldn’t really have more than a fifth grade education uses the word “albescent” in the middle of sex, I will go look up that word. And I will also think his partner can’t be giving very good head if he can think that while he’s getting blown. Bounce.
If a character with a heart transplant has an 8 inch scar, I go looking. It doesn’t seem like enough. Except it is, if all those pictures are correct, so I come back ready to believe other stuff the author tells me.
But if the author depends on the hot sex to distract me from sloppy details, I have bad news. Sex that hot doesn’t exist.
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