BANNED IN INDIANA

February 23, 2017

Dear Reader,

Previously banned in Indiana, IT'S ALIVE!

When in April my very own self-publisher, Abbott Press, refused to publish the manuscript of Part Three of THE MUSLIM ROMANCE TRILOGY, The Arab Sprung; While a Muslim Sleeps in the White House, my heart was broken, my spirit crushed, and my creativity hobbled from the knees down. After publishing Parts One and Two, Abbott Press decided to actually peruse what I had been writing about and came to the offensive conclusion that the topic was too hot and overly controversial. They sent me reams of emails setting forth corrections/deletions/and volumes of changes to my life. I refused to be censored in any way.

When I foolishly reminded Abbott Press that this was a trilogy and that the same venue, subject, and characters could be found in the first two books, they put Part One and Part Two through their querulous ringer. Again, I was sent cruel emails with lists of corrections/deletions/and changes to my life. Again, I refused to be censored in any way.

In May, 2016, Abbott Press removed Parts One and Two from all print-on-demand sale sights.

My friends, fans, and support group urged me to publish and to re-publish by way of Amazon's CreateSpace. Formatting is not my forte. I just want to tell my stories.

Then I found Steve Passiouras at bookow.com, who took the pain out of formatting my books for CreateSpace and turned the daunting experience of publishing into pure joy. All three joyously published volumes of THE MUSLIM ROMANCE TRILOGY are available on Amazon.com. Also available on Kindle. Enjoy!

SYNOPSIS of Part One of THE MUSLIM ROMANCE TRILOGY

                     PART ONE OF THE MUSLIM ROMANCE TRILOGY

 The Year I Learned to Text

                     Why Am I Having Sex with a Muslim in My Basement?

         Whoever said that politics and religion don’t mix forgot to throw

hot sex into the equation.

         When Julie, a celibate post-menopausal conservative, reinventing herself in Hollywood as an actor/comedian/realtor, takes on a handsome Persian Muslim twenty-two years her junior as her boy toy, she eagerly takes flight on a magic carpet ride into the addictive chemistry of unconditional love, which eventually consumes her.

         Between auditions, working on television sitcoms and movies, driving lookie-loos about the city, caring for her two dogs and one persnickety cat, performing her stand-up routine, and vain attempts at keeping her familial relationships from collapsing, Julie, a retired court reporter and mother of three, slips into her busy life erotic meetings in her basement with Ali, who claims to be an Internet marketing entrepreneur. In the light of scented candles, Julie comes of age and is awakened sexually by the black-eyed bad boy, who does not want to touch her in certain places, and who ritualistically washes his penis in her bathroom sink immediately after contact. Too soon he becomes her life, a life she senses has come and gone too soon. Late in life, she has learned patience: Ali is always two hours late to their trysts. He is on Persian time.

         The Hollywood Bungalow Mews, in which Julie lives, is a recurring character; each resident having his and her opinion of the goings on at Julie’s Spanish six hundred forty foot brothel. However, no one has ever witnessed Ali’s comings and goings, which leads Julie to wonder if, in deed, she hasn’t simply invented him, in light of the ongoing political climate and The War on Terror.

         When he invites her to join him to live in a cave in Afghanistan, she begins to believe his anti-American pillow talk. An American citizen born in Iran and an honor graduate from UCLA, Ali bemuses our heroine with the contradictions of his Islamic religion, his hypochondria­­­, and the exact whereabouts of his apartment.

         Julie feeds her bewilderment with hours spent Googling everything Middle Eastern, always a Cuba Libra and cigarette to steady her. Quickly she learns more about Islam than she ever wanted to know. Her new knowledge of Female Genital Mutilation has her legs crossed in a clenched position.

         Ali’s hatred toward anything American begins to frighten Julie, who dreams of contacting the FBI or the CIA in an attempt to save him from himself, Natasha Fatale and friends close at hand.

         Her immediate family—a sympathetic runway model and television actress daughter, a successful know-it-all divorced sister, and an obnoxious, Pollyanna mother on the edge of dementia— each have their own advice to stir up the cauldron of Julie’s frustrations.

         In an effort to loosen from his grasp, Julie buys a second home to renovate, a foreclosed vintage cabin in the mountains, to which she runs in her feeble attempts to find herself in between mini-breakups from the Muslim sociopath, who continually bounces back into her Hollywood bungalow basement.

         Julie at last frees herself, and after one year of soul-searching and never-before experienced depression, she finds him once again on her doorstep asking for her hand in Marriage Islam Style, the threat of three more wives looming on the sand-swept horizon.

         Can Julie walk away?

         The end of The Year I Learned to Text; Why Am I Having Sex with a Muslim in My Basement? finds our heroine trapped in the hopeful hopelessness of sexual and emotional addiction, the Oxytocin Love Drug flooding her veins; the dumbing dopamine addling her brain. Will there be peace in this world beginning with just one wannabe terrorist and one romantic fool?

        

(Part Two of the MUSLIM ROMANCE TRILOGY: JIHAD HONEYMOON IN HOLLYWOOD; NOT WITHOUT MY DOGS.

         Recounts all four of Julie’s honeymoons as we enjoy the current horrendous honeymoon of Mr. and Mrs. Terrorist.)

(Part Three of the MUSLIM ROMANCE TRILOGY: THE ARAB SPRUNG, WHILE MUSLIMS SLEEP IN THE WHITE HOUSE

         The last look at Julie while she attempts to replace the magic foot that fit so damned well in her glass slipper, current events tripping her at every turn in the way.

        

MUSLIM MADNESS

Bastille Day Massacre in Nice, France

My tears for the fallen.

My Ruger 380 for any miserable Muslim that shows up at my door.

COURT REPORTER STOPS CRYING OVER JIHAD ROMANCE

Good Morning, Reader

At my small pine desk at the cabin, Le Petit Chateau d'Enchante, I am staring at yet another blank page. I've been "found" on YouTube by a court stenographer in Washington, DC, who has invited me to perform at a conference. I haven't stood up to stand-up since my last appearance at the Comedy Store in 2010, when I made fun of my own personal Aladdin. I do believe for the court reporter conference, that it would be best to stick to the trials and tribulations of the courtroom and stay clear of sexual Jihad.

What do you think? And will I be able to fit into that blue suit?

The forest is green, lush, and foreboding, which means that too soon I shall have to pay out more money to another man to trim up the trees.

Must continue sanding and painting the front deck railing today, as I await the email from my CreateSpace genius to send me the new cover for Part Three of THE MUSLIM ROMANCE TRILOGY: The Arab Sprung, While Muslims Sleep in the White House.

Juliet

A PREVIEW OF PART THREE

Dear Readers,

From the original censored manuscript, here is the prologue of Part Three of THE MUSLIM ROMANCE TRILOGY, The Arab Sprung, While Muslims Sleep in the White House. Available soon through CreateSpace on Amazon.com

My author's page: www.amazon.com/author/julietmontague

                                            PROLOGUE                         

Veterans Day, November 11, 2013

Current Price of Moving On: $37,600

        

                              Novel no. 1, $3,500

                                    Alcohol, $5,475

                                    Vent Decontamination, $300

                                    New Front Gate, $1,500

                                    Tankless Water Heater, $2,800

                                    One Pretentious Billboard, $4,200

                                    New Neck, $8,000

                                    Nicotine, $5,570

                                    Online Dating, $160

                                    Novel no. 2, $3,200

                                    Electronic Cigarettes and Nicotine Oil, $295

                                    Escape to Ireland, $2,200

                                    COCO Mademoiselle by Chanel, $175

                                    Reams of paper, ink, and highlighter, $225

        

Who is he carelessly fucking now? I ponder the constantly recurring null question.

        

You broke up with him before he officially broke up with you; remember?

         And as I flip myself to one side and peak at the clock, I jerk the covers up and over my head. I am sure that right now in this pre-dawn moment, he is fucking no one, lest he has moved to another time zone, Afghanistan perhaps, as he had portended. It was not Ali’s custom to be up and out and away from his mother before nine a.m. 

         Under the silently spinning, dust free—clean, clean, clean, you sad lonely woman—plastic palmed ceiling fan, where once he had shamed me, in this room now chilled with the slightest hint of a California autumn, I awake still in darkness to what I hope to be the end of my international jet leg.

         Always contemplating the current degree of my insanity, I tug the twisted, hot-flashed sheet tightly over my shoulder in the realization that, yes, foolish woman, even a trip to the Emerald Isle in search of a rugged potato farmer has failed to yield a diversion from your most intimate yearnings.

         In that sweet, hot summer of 2010, did it truly take my very own personal Aladdin just a few days less than Mickey Rourke’s 9½ Weeks to knock me from my imaginary tower of significance in his mystery life to a puddle of humiliation at his sandaled feet?

         Just as the ghost of Emily Bronte’s wild and cursed Cathy taunted Heathcliff from the fairy caves of Penistone Crag, I hear him whispering to me from beyond the draped sheers of the bedroom window, beyond the metal trellis tossed with barren jasmine vines, beyond the bungalow walkway leading to the sleeping streets of Hollywood.

         Perhaps it is from behind the dormant vegetable garden of Mr. and Mr. Gaylord, the tidy newly married neighbors, that my charming, black-eyed, chiseled chin Middle Eastern lover chastises me in a haunting whisper.

                 

                                    Julie, Julie, Julie,

                                    Don’t you miss me yet?

        

         So today, the three-year anniversary marking the execution of a ruinous and feckless relationship and the beginning of my sexual hiatus—time enough alone to vainly publish the first two volumes of the longest love letter ever written for the entire judgmental world to read—Ali has pierced the fourth wall of my pitiful life stage to thrill me, presumably, posthumously once again.

         The clock radio still quiet, the time five fifty-five, tossing to find the perfect spot, I pull the cool satin comforter up over my camisole-cupped breasts. Lying on my back, I settle in deeper. Bill Handel on the KFI early morning Los Angeles talk show would soon mumble out his fractured sarcastic version of the noxious news of the week, prattling on at the prescribed alarm time of six-thirty. No sense in starting my day yet, although two overstuffed suitcases urging my immediate procrastinated attention lay sprawled open on my living room floor, as my first day back on American soil was spent making a one-hundred and eighty mile turnaround to my aunt and uncle’s to fetch the one unconditional love of my life.  

         Ali is here beside me under the sheet asking me timidly in his culturally appropriate ta’arouf manner if I am ready.

         And, of course, I am.

         The pastel gold-framed watercolor of the resurrected Jesus watching over me, my legs open. I skim the toenails of my right foot under and across the top sheet, where it stops at the bump on the bed. Brute answers with a staccato snore and a robust spurt onto his blankie. The old Maltese with minimal teeth and dreadful morning breath, who has acquiesced to sleep on my bed one more time, wisely ignores such occasions of my lustful despair, and the seductive spell has been broken for only a shameful moment, as my hand furtively takes position.

         I am so easy, a masturbatory slut. While I am battery poor, evidenced by my various solar-powered Victorian garden lights, flameless LED porch candles, and the Sony Walkman tape player, there is no need for the Energizer bunny in the bedroom.

          I seem to regularly walk about with a sweet burning somewhere between the descending crux of the V and the very point at which my plush inner thighs begin. On mornings when he returns to me, I awake with a painful swelling that is only soothed by gently soothing fingertips through satin pajama bottoms. He’s just taken a shower, dried himself with my rubber ducky bath towel and smells of his favorite blue Rainsoft water conditioner body wash. The long black hair swept about his neck glistens. Within a very short time, with his promise that he will enter me at the beginning of my climax, the gentle soothing fingers work themselves into a familiar frenzy as I turn my face to his, my eager thin walls painfully pulsating in the empty chamber, and beg for him to fill me.

         But he never does. His arms never encircle me. His fingers never slip into the cotton cami to sweetly twist an erect nipple. His thigh never crosses over my tummy to trap me in place. But it is his right hand, delicate and light, that so cleverly parts the moist meaty folds to find the little man in the boat and bring him safely and exquisitely to shore. This is my fantasy of what never was, because I am the director and I call the shots.

         I brought forth the morning’s ablution with hysterical tears and the accompanying pitiful sob.

                                    Ali, Ali, Ali,

                                    Don’t you miss me yet?

         I am truly mad.

         From the bedside radio Bill Handel On The News abruptly shakes my sensibilities as he reminds me once again that my inconsequential, small spoiled pouting life is truly not worthy of sympathy, empathy, or even a get well card. The result of Typhoon Haiyan crushing into the Philippines, the strongest tropical cyclone to ever make it to landfall, has left more than ten thousand dead and four million persons displaced. The people are seeking shelter in boats and in freight containers. Crazed survivors swarm the airport. Rotting bodies line the shores and fill the streets. All this mayhem while I lay sumptuously under a polyester faux-satin bedspread.

         Looters have taken over and Mr. Handel votes vehemently for their immediate execution. “Shoot them on sight!” He’s very good at ruling from his glass cage pulpit at the Clear Channel Studios in Burbank, just a hop, skip and jump, as the crow flies, from my bungalow on Cahuenga Boulevard to the other side of the Hollywood Hills.

         My thoughts turn to my first self-publishing company, Xlibris, where my writing journey began, along with thirty-five hundred dollars, in the Midwest United States. From there it was quickly dropped into a cardboard office cubicle somewhere in the Philippines. Is my first Filipino grammar editor under water? I should have been kinder to her, after all. And is my first marketing advisor seeking shelter in a container? I should have stopped screaming at her each time she called with another scheme to get more money out of me. Making amends might be difficult, as all that ill-spent suspicious anger is water under the bridge now, so to speak.

         I leap from the bed in disgust of my daily leisure routine, yet quickly return to my dry haven, but for the moist sheets, with a cup of java foamed with whipped hazelnut non-fat creamer and my Blackberry. Apparently, I am the only idiot in L.A. who still owns one.

         The typhoon disaster story has now moved on to more frightening news of the morning.

         Iran, it seems, is still cultivating plutonium in some dark cave in the hope of removing all infidels from the planet. More frightening is the news that President Obama’s approval rating is collapsing, which is frightening for Mrs. Obama, indeed. Mr. Handel repeated the presidential quote heard round the world regarding the implementation of The Affordable Care Act, “If you like your plan, you can keep it.”

         Government enforced healthcare at a somewhat surprising cost is being forced down America’s throat; a sort of negative blow job for the tired, the poor, the huddled masses yearning to breathe free—and now anyone with a pre-existing condition. I have missed the regulatory coming out of Obamacare and its penalties on those who refuse to swallow. I am sixty-five and receive Medicare. Time will tell just how long I shall continue smiling like a Cheshire cat. 

         I receive a text from my good friend and creative guru, another married homosexual, Stephen. This town is rife with them. During my celibacy, I’ve become quite the sought-after Fag Hag.

        

         Monday, November 13, 2013; 7:25a  STEPHEN: Remember, three pages a day!

            7:26a   JULIE: Yes, of course. Thank you for the wakeup call.

            7:26a   STEPHEN: What were you really doing?

            7:27a   JULIE: Masturbating.

            7:27a   STEPHEN: Well, cougar that should put you on the                                                                         bestseller list right away!

        

         As usual, my kitchen desk scowls at me through scribbled post-it notes, journals lined up against maize walls, diaries stacked like dead soldiers, mourned and not forgotten. I tire of the multiple three-ring binder research décor in my small living room, the pages of word-processed notes peering at me from the iron swirled cookbook stand on my kitchen counter. Where there should be a recipe for humble pie there are merciless memories, ideas, quotes, and song lyrics waiting to be illegally unleashed onto a waiting world. And to my amazement, readers are awaiting the release of Part Three—and I haven’t written one self-possessed, erotically stimulating, hysterical word.

         A review of Part One on my Amazon Author’s page:

                  I started this book yesterday and am now TRYING to

                        slow down, because I’m almost done. Jumped back on

                        Amazon to order the next two and praying she is writing

                        as we speak. I have had moments where I am pissed at her,

                        but I love her honesty. This book will hold your attention

                        and make u laugh. This woman did not get the memo that

                        we’re not supposed to let them know how crazy we are.

                                                                                                Paige

         For Paige and all the beautiful, emotionally starved, vulnerable, absolutely crazed women out there, Part Three of The Muslim Romance Trilogy. 

                                                                        Juliet

A PREVIEW OF PART THREE

Dear Readers,

From the original censored manuscript, here is the prologue of Part Three of THE MUSLIM ROMANCE TRILOGY, The Arab Sprung, While Muslims Sleep in the White House. Available soon through CreateSpace on Amazon.com

My author's page: www.amazon.com/author/julietmontague

                                            PROLOGUE                         

Veterans Day, November 11, 2013

Current Price of Moving On: $37,600

        

                              Novel no. 1, $3,500

                                    Alcohol, $5,475

                                    Vent Decontamination, $300

                                    New Front Gate, $1,500

                                    Tankless Water Heater, $2,800

                                    One Pretentious Billboard, $4,200

                                    New Neck, $8,000

                                    Nicotine, $5,570

                                    Online Dating, $160

                                    Novel no. 2, $3,200

                                    Electronic Cigarettes and Nicotine Oil, $295

                                    Escape to Ireland, $2,200

                                    COCO Mademoiselle by Chanel, $175

                                    Reams of paper, ink, and highlighter, $225

        

Who is he carelessly fucking now? I ponder the constantly recurring null question.

        

You broke up with him before he officially broke up with you; remember?

         And as I flip myself to one side and peak at the clock, I jerk the covers up and over my head. I am sure that right now in this pre-dawn moment, he is fucking no one, lest he has moved to another time zone, Afghanistan perhaps, as he had portended. It was not Ali’s custom to be up and out and away from his mother before nine a.m. 

         Under the silently spinning, dust free—clean, clean, clean, you sad lonely woman—plastic palmed ceiling fan, where once he had shamed me, in this room now chilled with the slightest hint of a California autumn, I awake still in darkness to what I hope to be the end of my international jet leg.

         Always contemplating the current degree of my insanity, I tug the twisted, hot-flashed sheet tightly over my shoulder in the realization that, yes, foolish woman, even a trip to the Emerald Isle in search of a rugged potato farmer has failed to yield a diversion from your most intimate yearnings.

         In that sweet, hot summer of 2010, did it truly take my very own personal Aladdin just a few days less than Mickey Rourke’s 9½ Weeks to knock me from my imaginary tower of significance in his mystery life to a puddle of humiliation at his sandaled feet?

         Just as the ghost of Emily Bronte’s wild and cursed Cathy taunted Heathcliff from the fairy caves of Penistone Crag, I hear him whispering to me from beyond the draped sheers of the bedroom window, beyond the metal trellis tossed with barren jasmine vines, beyond the bungalow walkway leading to the sleeping streets of Hollywood.

         Perhaps it is from behind the dormant vegetable garden of Mr. and Mr. Gaylord, the tidy newly married neighbors, that my charming, black-eyed, chiseled chin Middle Eastern lover chastises me in a haunting whisper.

                 

                                    Julie, Julie, Julie,

                                    Don’t you miss me yet?

        

         So today, the three-year anniversary marking the execution of a ruinous and feckless relationship and the beginning of my sexual hiatus—time enough alone to vainly publish the first two volumes of the longest love letter ever written for the entire judgmental world to read—Ali has pierced the fourth wall of my pitiful life stage to thrill me, presumably, posthumously once again.

         The clock radio still quiet, the time five fifty-five, tossing to find the perfect spot, I pull the cool satin comforter up over my camisole-cupped breasts. Lying on my back, I settle in deeper. Bill Handel on the KFI early morning Los Angeles talk show would soon mumble out his fractured sarcastic version of the noxious news of the week, prattling on at the prescribed alarm time of six-thirty. No sense in starting my day yet, although two overstuffed suitcases urging my immediate procrastinated attention lay sprawled open on my living room floor, as my first day back on American soil was spent making a one-hundred and eighty mile turnaround to my aunt and uncle’s to fetch the one unconditional love of my life.  

         Ali is here beside me under the sheet asking me timidly in his culturally appropriate ta’arouf manner if I am ready.

         And, of course, I am.

         The pastel gold-framed watercolor of the resurrected Jesus watching over me, my legs open. I skim the toenails of my right foot under and across the top sheet, where it stops at the bump on the bed. Brute answers with a staccato snore and a robust spurt onto his blankie. The old Maltese with minimal teeth and dreadful morning breath, who has acquiesced to sleep on my bed one more time, wisely ignores such occasions of my lustful despair, and the seductive spell has been broken for only a shameful moment, as my hand furtively takes position.

         I am so easy, a masturbatory slut. While I am battery poor, evidenced by my various solar-powered Victorian garden lights, flameless LED porch candles, and the Sony Walkman tape player, there is no need for the Energizer bunny in the bedroom.

          I seem to regularly walk about with a sweet burning somewhere between the descending crux of the V and the very point at which my plush inner thighs begin. On mornings when he returns to me, I awake with a painful swelling that is only soothed by gently soothing fingertips through satin pajama bottoms. He’s just taken a shower, dried himself with my rubber ducky bath towel and smells of his favorite blue Rainsoft water conditioner body wash. The long black hair swept about his neck glistens. Within a very short time, with his promise that he will enter me at the beginning of my climax, the gentle soothing fingers work themselves into a familiar frenzy as I turn my face to his, my eager thin walls painfully pulsating in the empty chamber, and beg for him to fill me.

         But he never does. His arms never encircle me. His fingers never slip into the cotton cami to sweetly twist an erect nipple. His thigh never crosses over my tummy to trap me in place. But it is his right hand, delicate and light, that so cleverly parts the moist meaty folds to find the little man in the boat and bring him safely and exquisitely to shore. This is my fantasy of what never was, because I am the director and I call the shots.

         I brought forth the morning’s ablution with hysterical tears and the accompanying pitiful sob.

                                    Ali, Ali, Ali,

                                    Don’t you miss me yet?

         I am truly mad.

         From the bedside radio Bill Handel On The News abruptly shakes my sensibilities as he reminds me once again that my inconsequential, small spoiled pouting life is truly not worthy of sympathy, empathy, or even a get well card. The result of Typhoon Haiyan crushing into the Philippines, the strongest tropical cyclone to ever make it to landfall, has left more than ten thousand dead and four million persons displaced. The people are seeking shelter in boats and in freight containers. Crazed survivors swarm the airport. Rotting bodies line the shores and fill the streets. All this mayhem while I lay sumptuously under a polyester faux-satin bedspread.

         Looters have taken over and Mr. Handel votes vehemently for their immediate execution. “Shoot them on sight!” He’s very good at ruling from his glass cage pulpit at the Clear Channel Studios in Burbank, just a hop, skip and jump, as the crow flies, from my bungalow on Cahuenga Boulevard to the other side of the Hollywood Hills.

         My thoughts turn to my first self-publishing company, Xlibris, where my writing journey began, along with thirty-five hundred dollars, in the Midwest United States. From there it was quickly dropped into a cardboard office cubicle somewhere in the Philippines. Is my first Filipino grammar editor under water? I should have been kinder to her, after all. And is my first marketing advisor seeking shelter in a container? I should have stopped screaming at her each time she called with another scheme to get more money out of me. Making amends might be difficult, as all that ill-spent suspicious anger is water under the bridge now, so to speak.

         I leap from the bed in disgust of my daily leisure routine, yet quickly return to my dry haven, but for the moist sheets, with a cup of java foamed with whipped hazelnut non-fat creamer and my Blackberry. Apparently, I am the only idiot in L.A. who still owns one.

         The typhoon disaster story has now moved on to more frightening news of the morning.

         Iran, it seems, is still cultivating plutonium in some dark cave in the hope of removing all infidels from the planet. More frightening is the news that President Obama’s approval rating is collapsing, which is frightening for Mrs. Obama, indeed. Mr. Handel repeated the presidential quote heard round the world regarding the implementation of The Affordable Care Act, “If you like your plan, you can keep it.”

         Government enforced healthcare at a somewhat surprising cost is being forced down America’s throat; a sort of negative blow job for the tired, the poor, the huddled masses yearning to breathe free—and now anyone with a pre-existing condition. I have missed the regulatory coming out of Obamacare and its penalties on those who refuse to swallow. I am sixty-five and receive Medicare. Time will tell just how long I shall continue smiling like a Cheshire cat. 

         I receive a text from my good friend and creative guru, another married homosexual, Stephen. This town is rife with them. During my celibacy, I’ve become quite the sought-after Fag Hag.

        

         Monday, November 13, 2013; 7:25a  STEPHEN: Remember, three pages a day!

            7:26a   JULIE: Yes, of course. Thank you for the wakeup call.

            7:26a   STEPHEN: What were you really doing?

            7:27a   JULIE: Masturbating.

            7:27a   STEPHEN: Well, cougar that should put you on the                                                                         bestseller list right away!

        

         As usual, my kitchen desk scowls at me through scribbled post-it notes, journals lined up against maize walls, diaries stacked like dead soldiers, mourned and not forgotten. I tire of the multiple three-ring binder research décor in my small living room, the pages of word-processed notes peering at me from the iron swirled cookbook stand on my kitchen counter. Where there should be a recipe for humble pie there are merciless memories, ideas, quotes, and song lyrics waiting to be illegally unleashed onto a waiting world. And to my amazement, readers are awaiting the release of Part Three—and I haven’t written one self-possessed, erotically stimulating, hysterical word.

         A review of Part One on my Amazon Author’s page:

                  I started this book yesterday and am now TRYING to

                        slow down, because I’m almost done. Jumped back on

                        Amazon to order the next two and praying she is writing

                        as we speak. I have had moments where I am pissed at her,

                        but I love her honesty. This book will hold your attention

                        and make u laugh. This woman did not get the memo that

                        we’re not supposed to let them know how crazy we are.

                                                                                                Paige

         For Paige and all the beautiful, emotionally starved, vulnerable, absolutely crazed women out there, Part Three of The Muslim Romance Trilogy. 

                                                                        Juliet