Recently I was fortunate in obtaining New York Times best selling status on my YA/NA book - Ugly, and my YA book - Mistrust.
My last three books have been YA and I'm completely in love with the genre. I love being able to communicate with people through my words and stories.
My writing genres all differ, but the one thing I keep consistent is my heroines. All my female lead characters are strong, gutsy and not the 'perfect' woman. While my books all have romantic elements in them, they aren't just about the romance. They're about finding strength, acceptance and making life long connections.
I hope you enjoy my stories as much as I have while writing them.
From New York Times bestselling author Margaret McHeyzer....
I’m the popular girl at school. The one everyone wants to be friends with. I have the best boyfriend in the world, who’s on the basketball team. My parents adore me, and I absolutely love them. My sister and I have a great relationship too. I’m a cheerleader, I have a high GPA and I’m liked even by the teachers. It was a night which promised to be filled with love and fun until…something happened which changed everything.
Dragging myself out of the gymnasium and down the hall, I try and get to the side double-doors. But with no one here to help me, it's difficult. I need to sit for a moment out on the steps leading to the back field and gather myself.
My legs become heavier as I get to the doors. The cyclone happening inside my head is growing thicker while my vision is so unclear I can barely make out any objects.
Stumbling down the first step, I barely recognize where I am.
“What’s happening?” I think I say.
There’s a cacophony of dense sounds; a combination of white noise, mumbling, and a beat which doesn’t make sense.
My eyes are now so heavy I can barely open them and my legs are completely weighted as I attempt to make my way down the stairs. I think I’m going to pass out.
Author Bio
There's something about the written word that is pure magic.
Possibly it's the fact there are 26 letters in the English alphabet, and they can create something so beautiful or so empowering they're capable to change our lives.
How important is it that we break suit and stretch our minds?
I like to think of myself as 'unique'. My stories aren't for everyone, and sometimes I may push what you believe to be 'normal'.
Normal is subjective.
I prefer to be known as a person who's never been 'bound by custom' but is 'unique by choice'.
Satisfy your book cravings with Grit, Chef Pierre and Smoke & Mirrors.
This box set is only available for a very limited time. Get all three books worth $8.97 for $4.99.
GRIT
TOP 100 AMAZON BESTSELLER
***Recommended for 18 years and over***
Alpha MC Prez Jaeger Dalton wants the land that was promised to him.
Sassy Phoenix Ward isn't about to let anyone take Freedom Run away from her.
He'll protect what's his.
She'll protect what's hers.
Jaeger is an arrogant ass, but he wants nothing more than Phoenix.
Phoenix is stubborn and headstrong, and she wants Jaeger out of her life.
Her father lost the family farm to gambling debts, but Jaeger isn't the only one who has a claim to the property.
Sometimes it's best to let things go.
But sometimes it's better to fight until the very end.
CHEF PIERRE
Holly Walker had everything she'd ever dreamed about - a happy marriage and being mum to beautiful brown-eyed Emma - until an accident nineteen months ago tore her world apart. Now she's a widow and single mother to a boisterous little 7-year-old girl, looking for a new start. Ready to take the next step, Holly has found herself a job as a maître d' at Table One, a once-acclaimed restaurant in the heart of Sydney. But one extremely arrogant Frenchman isn't going to be easy to work with...
Twenty years ago, Pierre LeRoux came to Australia, following the stunning Aussie girl he'd fallen in love with and married. He and his wife put their personal lives on hold, determined for Pierre to take Sydney's culinary society by storm. Just as his bright star was on the upswing, tragedy claimed the woman he was hopelessly in love with. He had been known as a Master Chef, but since his wife's death he has become known as a monster chef.
Can two broken people rebuild their lives and find happiness once more?
SMOKE AND MIRRORS
Words can trick us.
Smoke obscures objects on the edge of our vision. A mirror may reflect, but the eye sees what it wants. A delicate scent can evoke another time and place, a memory from the past. And a sentence can deceive you, even as you read it.
There's something about the written word that is pure magic.
Possibly it's the fact there are 26 letters in the English alphabet, and they can create something so beautiful or so empowering they're capable to change our lives.
How important is it that we break suit and stretch our minds?
I like to think of myself as 'unique'. My stories aren't for everyone, and sometimes I may push what you believe to be 'normal'.
Normal is subjective.
I prefer to be known as a person who's never been 'bound by custom' but is 'unique by choice'.
“Lily Anderson, you get your ugly ass out here right this minute. Don’t make me come after you,” Daddy screams.
He’s so angry. I knew the moment I heard him come home from work I was in for it. I was in my bedroom, lying on the floor trying to do my math. He slammed the front door so hard the windows in my room shook.
And then I knew, I knew I was in for it.
“Lily Anderson!” he yells again.
As soon as I heard him yell I ran to my hiding spot. I’m inside the closet in the hallway, wedged as far into the corner as I can get. Mom’s old coat hangs in front of me and I can still smell a faint waft of the perfume she used to wear.
“Lily Anderson!” he shouts. I can hear the anger in his voice and I can already feel the pain he’s going to inflict on me when he opens the closet door. I know what’s coming.
I close my eyes tight, scrunching them up so no light can seep through. I put my hands over my ears so I can’t hear him.
“I swear to God; if I have to find you, you will not sit for a month.”
My knees are folded into my chest. I’m trying to make myself small, invisible, so he forgets I’m here. I’m rocking myself, trying to block out what he’s saying.
School is safe. School is safe. School is safe. I keep repeating the mantra because in a few short hours I’ll be back at school. Maybe tomorrow I can go to the library after school, stay there until it closes and then sneak in after Dad’s passed out, because he’s had too much to drink.
It was never like this before. Ever.
I’m twelve years old and I can remember when Mom, Dad, and I were all happy. But that was years ago. It’s been a long time since there’s been any happiness in this house.
Well, before Mom died anyway, and not a day since.
Mom died when I was nine. I don’t remember much about her, except I remember her telling me how ugly I am. How life would be better if I was taken away from them. How I’ll never be anything, because I’m stupid and ugly.
Sometimes I dream happy things. Like me, Mom, Dad and a little blond-haired boy all going for a picnic. The sun beamed down on us as we played outside and laughed. We’d eat yummy sandwiches Mom made for us, and we’d drink homemade lemonade. We’d spend hours outside, laughing and talking and just having fun. Mom would tell me how pretty I am, and how much she loved me. She would play with my hair, braid it, and then we’d go and pick bright flowers to take home and put in a vase. Dad would smile and call us “his girls”, always kissing Mom and hugging me. Dad would put the little boy on his shoulders and run around the park, trying to catch the clouds.
I love those dreams, and I hold onto them; wishing they were real. But I’ve never had a mom like that, and my dad doesn’t talk much unless it’s with his fists, or to tell me how ugly and useless I am.
I feel him walking around the house. The floorboards creak and the vibrations from his footsteps come through the floor to where my bottom is. I close my eyes tighter and try and breathe as quietly as I can.
Please go away, Daddy. Please go away.
My heart is beating so fast. My hands are shaking and I’m trying really hard not to think about what’s going to happen the minute he opens the closet door.
Shhh, it’s so quiet. The only sound is my heart thrumming in my ears. Nothing else. Not a whisper, not a rattle…nothing.
Maybe Daddy’s left. Maybe he’s gone to the pub to have a few drinks. Maybe, just maybe, he’s left...forever.
I take a deep breath and just relax for a moment. My shoulders drop and I finally stop rocking.
Slowly I take my hands down from my ears, and I’m so happy because I can’t hear him yelling at me. I can’t hear him at all.
Gradually, I begin to unscrunch my eyes from the way I’ve tightly closed them. But something’s not right. There’s light coming into the closet.
I don’t even get a chance to open them fully before a rough hand reaches in, latches onto my ponytail and yanks.
“I told you it’d be worse for you if I had to find you,” Dad says, as he drags me out of the closet by my hair.
I’m desperately trying to hold onto my head so he doesn’t rip my hair out. My feet are trying to find traction on the dirty floorboards.
“Please, Daddy. Please. You’re hurting me,” I begin sobbing as I plead with him.
“Then your ugly ass should’ve come when I called you, you stupid bitch. You’re fucking worthless, you ugly idiot,” he says. But now his voice is calm as he continues to drag me toward the family room.
That’s when he’s most scary. When his voice is low and his eyes are filled with hate.
He throws me against the side of the sofa and takes a step back to look at me.
I look up and can see he’s the angriest I’ve ever seen him. “You dumb, ugly piece of shit,” he says, as he paces back and forth in front of me.
“Sorry, Daddy. Whatever I did, I’m so sorry.” I cower into myself, trying to make myself as small as possible.
“You’re just too fucking stupid, aren’t you?” he spits toward me as he brings his hand up to scratch at his chin.
“I’m sorry,” I say again. Tears are falling hot and fast down my cheeks. My head hurts from where he was pulling my hair, but I don’t dare try to rub the spot.
“You ugly fuck.” He kicks a boot into my leg.
The pain is instant and my leg feels like it’s shattered. “Please, Daddy,” I beg again, burying my face into my hands.
But ‘please’ never seems to work.
Nothing does.
I’ve just got to take the beatings, because that’s what stupid, ugly girls do.
Author Bio
There's something about the written word that is pure magic.
Possibly it's the fact there are 26 letters in the English alphabet, and they can create something so beautiful or so empowering they're capable to change our lives.
How important is it that we break suit and stretch our minds?
I like to think of myself as 'unique'. My stories aren't for everyone, and sometimes I may push what you believe to be 'normal'.
Normal is subjective.
I prefer to be known as a person who's never been 'bound by custom' but is 'unique by choice'.
“Lily Anderson, you get your ugly ass out here right this minute. Don’t make me come after you,” Daddy screams.
He’s so angry. I knew the moment I heard him come home from work I was in for it. I was in my bedroom, lying on the floor trying to do my math. He slammed the front door so hard the windows in my room shook.
And then I knew, I knew I was in for it.
“Lily Anderson!” he yells again.
As soon as I heard him yell I ran to my hiding spot. I’m inside the closet in the hallway, wedged as far into the corner as I can get. Mom’s old coat hangs in front of me and I can still smell a faint waft of the perfume she used to wear.
“Lily Anderson!” he shouts. I can hear the anger in his voice and I can already feel the pain he’s going to inflict on me when he opens the closet door. I know what’s coming.
I close my eyes tight, scrunching them up so no light can seep through. I put my hands over my ears so I can’t hear him.
“I swear to God; if I have to find you, you will not sit for a month.”
My knees are folded into my chest. I’m trying to make myself small, invisible, so he forgets I’m here. I’m rocking myself, trying to block out what he’s saying.
School is safe. School is safe. School is safe. I keep repeating the mantra because in a few short hours I’ll be back at school. Maybe tomorrow I can go to the library after school, stay there until it closes and then sneak in after Dad’s passed out, because he’s had too much to drink.
It was never like this before. Ever.
I’m twelve years old and I can remember when Mom, Dad, and I were all happy. But that was years ago. It’s been a long time since there’s been any happiness in this house.
Well, before Mom died anyway, and not a day since.
Mom died when I was nine. I don’t remember much about her, except I remember her telling me how ugly I am. How life would be better if I was taken away from them. How I’ll never be anything, because I’m stupid and ugly.
Sometimes I dream happy things. Like me, Mom, Dad and a little blond-haired boy all going for a picnic. The sun beamed down on us as we played outside and laughed. We’d eat yummy sandwiches Mom made for us, and we’d drink homemade lemonade. We’d spend hours outside, laughing and talking and just having fun. Mom would tell me how pretty I am, and how much she loved me. She would play with my hair, braid it, and then we’d go and pick bright flowers to take home and put in a vase. Dad would smile and call us “his girls”, always kissing Mom and hugging me. Dad would put the little boy on his shoulders and run around the park, trying to catch the clouds.
I love those dreams, and I hold onto them; wishing they were real. But I’ve never had a mom like that, and my dad doesn’t talk much unless it’s with his fists, or to tell me how ugly and useless I am.
I feel him walking around the house. The floorboards creak and the vibrations from his footsteps come through the floor to where my bottom is. I close my eyes tighter and try and breathe as quietly as I can.
Please go away, Daddy. Please go away.
My heart is beating so fast. My hands are shaking and I’m trying really hard not to think about what’s going to happen the minute he opens the closet door.
Shhh, it’s so quiet. The only sound is my heart thrumming in my ears. Nothing else. Not a whisper, not a rattle…nothing.
Maybe Daddy’s left. Maybe he’s gone to the pub to have a few drinks. Maybe, just maybe, he’s left...forever.
I take a deep breath and just relax for a moment. My shoulders drop and I finally stop rocking.
Slowly I take my hands down from my ears, and I’m so happy because I can’t hear him yelling at me. I can’t hear him at all.
Gradually, I begin to unscrunch my eyes from the way I’ve tightly closed them. But something’s not right. There’s light coming into the closet.
I don’t even get a chance to open them fully before a rough hand reaches in, latches onto my ponytail and yanks.
“I told you it’d be worse for you if I had to find you,” Dad says, as he drags me out of the closet by my hair.
I’m desperately trying to hold onto my head so he doesn’t rip my hair out. My feet are trying to find traction on the dirty floorboards.
“Please, Daddy. Please. You’re hurting me,” I begin sobbing as I plead with him.
“Then your ugly ass should’ve come when I called you, you stupid bitch. You’re fucking worthless, you ugly idiot,” he says. But now his voice is calm as he continues to drag me toward the family room.
That’s when he’s most scary. When his voice is low and his eyes are filled with hate.
He throws me against the side of the sofa and takes a step back to look at me.
I look up and can see he’s the angriest I’ve ever seen him. “You dumb, ugly piece of shit,” he says, as he paces back and forth in front of me.
“Sorry, Daddy. Whatever I did, I’m so sorry.” I cower into myself, trying to make myself as small as possible.
“You’re just too fucking stupid, aren’t you?” he spits toward me as he brings his hand up to scratch at his chin.
“I’m sorry,” I say again. Tears are falling hot and fast down my cheeks. My head hurts from where he was pulling my hair, but I don’t dare try to rub the spot.
“You ugly fuck.” He kicks a boot into my leg.
The pain is instant and my leg feels like it’s shattered. “Please, Daddy,” I beg again, burying my face into my hands.
But ‘please’ never seems to work.
Nothing does.
I’ve just got to take the beatings, because that’s what stupid, ugly girls do.
Author Bio
There's something about the written word that is pure magic.
Possibly it's the fact there are 26 letters in the English alphabet, and they can create something so beautiful or so empowering they're capable to change our lives.
How important is it that we break suit and stretch our minds?
I like to think of myself as 'unique'. My stories aren't for everyone, and sometimes I may push what you believe to be 'normal'.
Normal is subjective.
I prefer to be known as a person who's never been 'bound by custom' but is 'unique by choice'.
Words can trick us.
Smoke obscures objects on the edge of our vision.
A mirror may reflect, but the eye sees what it wants.
A delicate scent can evoke another time and place, a memory from the past.
And a sentence can deceive you, even as you read it.It took her four months to let me kiss her.
And every night I’d go home and jerk off to the thought of her.
In those four months though, her skin cleared and she did some shit to her hair to make it less like a fuzzball.
“Your hair’s not so fucked up any more.” I caught myself too late saying something that I shouldn’t have.
“Pardon?” she asked as she whipped her head around to glare at me. Man, she was fuckin’ cute when she was pissed off.
But I knew I had to try harder if I wanted to keep her.
I even stopped getting pussy from other girls, because Nadine was who I wanted. And not for a week or month, but a lifetime.
“I meant, your hair looks nice like that,” I said.
She let out a snort and shook her head. “Thanks,” she said as she put her hand over mine and linked our fingers together.
“Nadine, I really wanna kiss you,” I blurted out.
Her eyes looked into mine. As we sat in her old, shitty, beat-up car at the drive-in, she leaned over and kissed me.
That was the end of me. Her softness was all around me, and I needed to be as close to her as possible. There was something about her, her innocence, her gentle, shy nature, and her pure heart fuckin’ took me and twisted everything inside.
I don't do 'normal'.
I've found that the more I write, the more I like being different to other authors. I write in first person, and I love to challenge a reader.
I take the normal and switch it around.
For me, I really enjoy getting a reaction from a reader. So if I can evoke an emotion (regardless of if it's the emotion the reader wants) then I figure that I've done my job as an author I want to be.
I really quite revel in taking people out of their comfort zones and pushing them to read something different.
My genre of writing is, well quite frankly, where ever my mind goes. I won't label myself because I don't like sticking to one genre.
My goal with writing is just to take people away from whatever is going on in their lives, even if it's only for a split second.
I'm a go with the flow sort of person and don't really take a course of action to get where I am going. I live in the moment and don't usually worry about tomorrow because whatever life is due to bring me, I'll be happy to accept.
I love my family and friends and will help anyway I can if someone needs it. I really don't like people that are nasty just because they can be, I don't believe that's necessary, I mean life's hard enough as it is!
I hope you enjoy my books, I've had a hoot writing them. There's more to come.....
Til next time.
M xx
