Friday, 10 April 2009

Coming Soon to FSW!

Join Elizabeth Walker, author of the memoir, The Tablet of My Heart, (Xulon Press), as she virtually tours the blogosphere in May on her first virtual book tour with Pump Up Your Book Promotion!

About the Author

Elizabeth Walker is the author of the memoir, The Tablet of My Heart. You can visit her website at To read an extended bio, click here!

About the Book

The world turns upside down for a young girl when her father begins a fatal battle with the merciless affliction cancer. Before his illness finishes it’s devastating rampage through her adolescence, she is confronted by a new demon. She falls victim, by the hands of a trusted adult, to sexual abuse. The devastation of these events causes her to question God’s role in her life, and whether He ever loved her at all. The Tablet of My Heart is a collection of Poetry from the journal of that young girl. It is narrated by the author of the journal herself, who paints a portrait of words illustrating her emotional journey from hopelessness to healing. It is dedicated to victims of abuse; to bring to them the realization of hope that there is a light at the end of the silence.


My dad had been sick, very sick, for two years of my life now. My mother’s energy was consumed by his sickness. My brothers had their own agendas. One of them was farther away than I could imagine, and the other two . . . let’s be honest . . . what big brother wants his baby sister tagging along for anything? It was a perfectly natural relationship, I assure you.

Unfortunately, Doyle saw it as a perfectly inviting opportunity to gain my trust and friendship. I was alone inside my head. As I said before, I wasn’t really used to someone giving me all his attention. When I was in Doyle’s presence, he paid all sorts of attention to me. He loved my company, he loved to make me smile, and casually he began to love to have me sit on his lap.

Contrary to a mind’s projection of what a child molester should look like, Doyle did not appear to be a monster at all. As a matter of fact, he appeared to be a hero of sorts.

Here was my mother, grieving over the certain death of her husband and father of her children. There with her were the four of us kids, bound to be fatherless. Desperate, sad, and struggling for hope, we were sinking. Then came Doyle, offering a life raft in the midst of troubled waters. He reached out to my mother and supplied her with shelter when she desperately needed it. He gave her a shoulder to cry on in her weakness. He read the loneliness written on my face and responded with friendship. He let us stay in his tiny apartment on the weekends, even though we nearly crowded him out of it. A pillar of a man, people must have thought—certainly not a monster.

Into the Darkness

Sometimes darkness falls so quickly
You barely know it’s there,
Before it finds the warmth inside your soul
And buries itself there.
If you’re lucky maybe embers
Can survive the dying flames,
Smothered by the lifeless dark
That snuffed them when it came.
Once the blackness enters,
Does it ever leave?
Will it stay until it suffocates
The light entirely?
The darkness speaks and hisses
Ugly little things
That mock you every time you pray,
“He’s not lis-s-s-s-s-s-tening.”

Thursday, 9 April 2009

WIP with a Wibble

I’ve just been telling myself to write, but my mind isn’t playing. I have three WIPs on the go—rare for me as I usually concentrate on one thing at a time. One is nearly finished, but I can’t be bothered to go in and tie the big shiny bow on the end. Another is just at the start, as is one more, a YA I began the other day then lost the urge.

I’m one of those writers who can write huge amounts when the mood strikes me, but nothing for months in between. I tried the Stephen King suggestion of training myself to write every day for a certain amount of time, but it isn’t working. Why write forced when I know I’m going to scrap it afterwards? Waste of time.

So, for your perusal, is the bare bones (I always add to it as I go along) start of my YA. All I know is it’s about a girl who loves a boy. I write ‘blind’ the majority of the time. Sit down, write, see what happens. My one time writing a novel with a plan drove me mad. I’m contemplating making it into a pdf and giving the bugger away for free.

Anyway, before I put my gumph up, how do you write? Blind? Mapped out? Can you write every day, or, like me, do you have a block for too long to mention?


Untitled YA. Copyright M.E. Ellis

There’s this lad at school, right, and he is soooo nice. I blush every time I see him. I’m sure he knows I like him. You know when you stutter and your palms sweat? Well, that’s me whenever he comes near. Like, even when he’s over the other side of the gym or at the far end of the football pitch.

That got me thinking. Do I have an internal radar that picks up on him or something? Does my body know he’s around before my eyes and nose do? I mean, there was this one time I sat at my desk in my bedroom to do my homework and my stomach fluttered. I just knew he was close by. And guess what? I looked out the window, and he stood in my street, talking with my older brother.

That’s how I first met Scott. He’s been my brother’s friend for aaaaaaaages, but I didn’t fancy him until recently. Our science teacher, Mrs. Fletcher, taught us all about hormones and stuff the other week, and I put two and two together and realised that’s why I like Scott in that way now. Hmmm.

But he’s older than me. Okay, only by about a year or so, but older, and Mum and Dad wouldn’t like that. No, they’d say he was after something and wonder why a bigger lad wanted to go out with me. Spoil sports.

Anyway, he doesn’t notice me like that. He’s always got that Vi Chalmers on his arm. She’s the kind of girl you want to pinch. On the cheeks. Hard. I dream about doing that, you know, and wake up smiling. In my dreams, all her makeup comes off on my pointer finger and thumb, leaving two smudges on her cheeks. Yeah, and acne shows through, which tells me just how much foundation she uses to make her face look so fresh and lovely and…argh! I hate her.

And she’s blonde, blue-eyed. Yeah, definitely a girl you could pinch. While I’m…well, let’s just say I’ve got greasy black hair no matter how often I wash it and my face resembles a pepperoni pizza. Go on, laugh. Everyone else does.

Being a teenager is so tough. It sucks. It smells like fresh dog turd on a summer’s day.

It hurts.

But being in love hurts more.


I’m not at all sure I like the squiffy business that goes on down below. Mrs. Fletcher said it’s normal, but it doesn’t feel normal. If Scott’s in the vicinity or I think about him, my mini—you know, my bits—get tingly and I have to squeeze my legs together to make it go away. I end up jigging and looking really weird, like some imbecilic freak.

Once, my best friend, Sally, glanced aside at me and asked, “Do you need a wee or something?”

Of course, I nodded and bolted to the girls' toilets, but I couldn’t wee for the life of me. It seems my cheeks are forever doomed to being red and hot, my tummy always gripped with spasms, and my mini, well, doing what minis do when you’re sixteen and over.

And then I let my thoughts follow the forbidden trail. You know the one. The path that leads to the question at the end of the track that no kid wants answered. Do my parents do it?

I don’t want to know, yet I always wonder. I watch them sometimes to see if they act like the kids at school, all sloppy kisses and hand holding, but Mum and Dad just seem normal. Like two pals.

Maybe they wait until darkness comes to do…that.

Ugh. Ugh. Ugh.

I’d talk to Sally about my mini and its antics, but I’m not sure how she’d react. Maybe she’d think I was a pervert or whatever. Maybe she’d never want to speak to me again. I mean, who wants a friend whose bits keep doing that thing? Or maybe hers do the same, and then I’d get the ugh factor about that, the way I do about Mum and Dad.

I need to talk to someone, though.

But who?


School is a bummer. It’s boring. I’m learning the same stuff as I did last year. The only reason I don’t skive off is because I come here to see Scott. Oh my God, he’s there on the playing field. He’s coming over. He’s walking towards me while I’m by myself and he’s by himself and we’ll be all alone and….

“Hey,” he says.

Helloooooooo says my mini.

“Um, hi,” says me.

Sweat breaks out on not only my palms, but under my arms. Great. My white school shirt will sport wet rings now. I’ll have to remember to clamp my arms by my sides for the rest of the day. He stands with his hands on his hips, and I peek at his armpits. No damp whatsoever. And his arms, all tanned and showing signs of being hairy like a man…. Ooooh, I could just snog his face off.

“Seen Luke anywhere?” he asks.

Wonderful. I should have known he hadn’t come over to speak to me. He wants my brother. Sometimes I could strangle Luke. The urge to do so now beats the time when he stole my massive gobstopper and sucked on it until it had reduced in size. Man, I wanted to kill him then, especially when he dried it and offered it back.

Uh, yeah? Like I’m going to put it in my mouth after it had been in his?

Not likely.

I blink and return my attention to Scott, who waits with a frown and taps his Nikes on the grass. I’m bugging him, I know it. I’m bugging him and making him go off me. What am I talking about? He didn’t go on me in the first place.

That didn’t come out right. I didn’t mean…oh, never mind.

“Umm, no,” I say and fiddle with my bag strap. What a complete plonker I must look.

“Oh, well….”

He gazes behind me—can’t even bear to look at my manky face I expect—then stares back at me. His eyes, they’re so…beautiful. And his eyelashes. I wish mine were like that, all long and pretty. Even his eyebrows look shaped.

“D’you pluck your eyebrows?” I ask before I can stop myself.

His face morphs into a horror-struck expression—you know, a sneer on the lips, eyes wide, brow furrowed—and I know I’ve made the biggest mistake ever. He’s really going to like me now. Not.


“Umm, sorry,” I say and step to the side to walk away, out of his personal space, his life…. Oh, woe is me, and all that business.

“Listen,” he says and grips my arm.

I turn to face him, shame burning my cheeks. “Hmmm?”

“D’you wanna share a soda?”

What? What did he just say? Like, he doesn’t mind sharing a soda with me? Ohmigod, that means he’ll touch the can with his lips and I can touch the same place and he doesn’t mind spit transference and….

“Uh, okay. Yeah. That would be great. I’m thirsty. Yeah, well thirsty, what with it being so hot and everything. Yeah, what shall we have? Coke? Sprite? What? What d’you fancy,” shut the hell up, Daisy, shut the hell up, “because I don’t mind. I like all sodas. Yeah, umm, yeah….”

His expression stops my waffle. His animated expression. Brows raised, mouth a beaming smile, eyes sparkling. I’m seeing things, surely.

He laughs and releases my arm. “You’re freakin’ nuts!” He puts his arm around my shoulders and leads me towards the cafeteria.

Did you hear what I said? He put. His arm. Around my. Shoulder.

Mini with the wibbles, anyone?


Of course, heads turn upon our entrance. Well, they would, wouldn’t they? Who would ever have thought Scott Turner would stroll into the cafeteria with me, Daisy Welland, by his side. Let’s be honest, if anyone had ever thought about it, they’d have laughed. Scott Turner doesn’t hang out with dorks like me.

Until now, apparently.

At the counter, he takes his arm away. Cool air swoops onto the place his arm had been, and a shiver wends down my spine at the loss of contact. He may never touch me again, so I’d better savour what the weight of him felt like, remember the heat from his skin.

Mini! Stop it!

“What shall we have?” he asks and laughs.

He’s obviously recalled my insane monologue about me not minding what soda we have. Stupid, stupid cow! I move to run my fingers through my hair but remember my sweaty pits. I’d ask the floor to open up and swallow me, but I don’t want to miss out on my lips touching that can rim.

“Whatever,” I say and flick my head to the side to shift a stray lock that hung over my eye.
We wait in line, the silence between us uncomfortable, similar to when Mum bites my behind after she’s discovered I didn’t do my chores. I clutch my bag strap and dance from foot to foot.

“D’you need the toilet or something?” a girl’s voice asks.

Oh no. That’s all I need. Sally busting in on my private time with Scott.

I turn and face her. I love her and everything, but her timing is way off. I widen my eyes to let her know she needs to move along, get lost.

“What’s up with your eyes?” she asks and smirks.

Scrub what I just said. I don’t love her anymore.

“Nothing,” I say and narrow them. “I thought you had a lunchtime detention?”

“I did, but Mr. Holbart got a phone call, so I skipped out of the classroom.”

I gasped. “You’ll so get done for that.”

Sally shrugs, and her brown ponytail sways from side to side. “Nah. He’ll be gone ages. Won’t be back until the end of lunch, I’ll bet. He’s probably talking to his lover.”

Despite Sally’s disastrous interruption, I smile. We’d seen Mr. Holbart in town once, his hands all over some woman who looked too pretty to be with the likes of him. I mean, he’s old and grey and smells like cigars and dried sweat.

Which reminds me….

“Do you have any deodorant in your bag?” I whisper.

“Deodorant?” Sally yells. “What d’you want that for? Got sweaty pits?”

I blush—and no, I definitely don’t love her anymore—and fight the urge to stamp my foot on her toes. Why is she being such a…a…cowbag?

I swivel round and present my back to her. I don’t want to see her face right now. I don’t want her near me. She taps my shoulder, and I stay my position.

“Sorry,” she whispers, her breath hot on my neck. “I was only messing.”

I shuffle along and catch up with Scott, who stands at the head of the queue paying for a Coke. Sally’s sigh reaches me, and I don’t feel an ounce of guilt.