Rasputin’s Murder by Katherine Pym

For something entirely different, a YA fantasy for all ages. 

Well imagined. 

Buy Here

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Imperial Family & others. Little Alexi is sitting on the ground, center.

WWI is a popular topic these days with re: to novels, movies and miniseries. Even as a child, I heard it referred to as The Great War but never realized the cruel impact of it, the men being gassed, and the horrors of battles fought almost entirely in trenches. This war involved almost every nation and killed (military & civilian) more than 18 million. 

No small potato. 

Grigori Rasputin, the Mad Monk

Russia took part in this war with Czar Nicholas on the front, trying to direct his generals and their portion of the battles. This left Grigory Efimovich Rasputin behind to give spiritual advice to the Czarina, much of her family and the local nobles. Vicious propaganda emerged Rasputin had bedded the Czarina and the two of them supposedly ruled Russia in the Czar’s absence.

Enter Felix Yusupov (also spelled Youssupov), a prince and more wealthy than the Imperial family. Felix was the second son who, after the death of his brother in a duel, inherited a vast fortune. They owned lands from Asia to Finland, reaped the benefits of minerals and other resources. He was raised knowing this, and was quite the wild fellow in his youth. 

Felix Yusupov

He enjoyed wearing his mother’s clothes and jewelry, went to nightclubs dressed as a woman. After an episode where his mother’s very expensive pearl necklace broke, pearls shooting all over the darkened nightclub floor, Felix’s father put a stop to all this nonsense. He set his son under close military guard and was taught to act like a man. 

Felix (in sailor suit) and his family

Eventually, due Felix’s father’s many absences from their numerous palaces and homes, this hard-line began to fade. Felix went to university at Oxford and resumed his frivolous life. When he returned to Russia, he married the Czar’s only niece. Even as Felix’s reputation was in tatters and the royal family considered him a flagrant ne’er-do-well but since he was richer than Croesus, he was okay.

Felix was introduced to Grigory Efimovich Rasputin, the popular ‘mad monk’ and spiritualist. Felix’s social circles, especially the women, were enamored with Rasputin. He had numerous affairs with women of all stations. His smoky grey eyes could mesmerize one.  His calm voice brought one peace.  

The Czarina considered him a gift from God who could heal the heir to the throne of his hemophilia. Felix’s aunt, the Grand Duchess Olga, professed her belief in Rasputin, that she observed him healing her dear nephew.

Russia’s nobles learned to hate Rasputin. The imperial couple shunted their counsel aside as Rasputin became more powerful. The Grand Duchess hounded Felix to love Rasputin. They met and—even as Felix proudly accounted for his part in the monk’s murder—something was missing in his account. Historians debate there may have been more to Felix and Rasputin’s relationship than spiritual meetings.  

Under the guise of restoring the reputation and dignity of the imperial family, nobles planned Rasputin’s assassination. They hoped the Czar would return to St Petersburg to rule Russia as he was meant to do during a crucial time as this and let his generals run the war.

December 29/30, 1916: (This is based on several accounts that don’t necessarily match, but there you have it.) Led by Prince Yusupov who instigated the whole affair, Grand Duke Dmitri Pavolovich, the Czar’s first cousin, Vladimir Purishkevitch, a Duma deputy, and two others lured Rasputin to Felix’s opulent home with the promise he would meet Felix’s wife.

Instead, he was taken down a winding staircase to a large cellar where he was fed wine and cake laced with cyanide. Either Rasputin was a strong man or the poison was faulty for the man did not die. He passed out though. Rasputin lay on the floor, now awake, and told Yusupov he would tell something damaging about him to the Czarina. This did not sit well with Felix.

The Courtyard where Rasputin finally breathed his last.

Since the Yusupov and the other men were committed, they shot him twice. One bullet hit him in his midsection, the second in his back.

Rasputin lived. He escaped to the mansion’s courtyard where he was cruelly beaten and shot again in the head. Finally dead, the men dumped Rasputin in a hole in the ice of a canal, knowing his body would be swept downstream.

The Czarina was furious. Felix and Dimitri were exiled. Dimitri found his way to America. Felix and his wife went to the Crimea then onward to Paris. They both survived the Revolution.

As a footnote: One article I read stated that without Rasputin and how much he was hated, how he had controlled the Czarina and her husband, there would have been no room for Vladimir Lenin.

But then again, who knows.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Many thanks to:

Wikicommons &

https://www.smithsonianmag.com/history/murder-rasputin-100-years-later-180961572/

http://www.alexanderpalace.org/palace/Felix.html

http://www.thehistoryreader.com/modern-history/felix-yusupov/

AHA Moments in Writing by Diane Bator

A-ha moments. Writers have had them.
In fact, we've ALL had them at some time or another.

For writers, we've all had sections of a story where we just can't move past a certain hurdle, or even if we do the story just doesn't work for us. It's not really writer's block, but just a niggly feeling that the book we are writing isn't quite working but we can't put our finger on why even after the entire manuscript is complete.

While working on Written in Stone, my current works in progress scheduled for release in November 2021, I've had one little part of the story that hasn't seemed right for months. How to create a fire that doesn't damage the structure of a building. I was so focused on that ONE detail, that I didn't even look at the rest of the book for a bigger, more glaring issue. The main character's entire background and how it affects the plot of my novel.

By definition, an aha moment is a point where an important insight, choice or decision is made. I think of it as a release from what some people call Writer's Block. Oddly enough, my own aha moment came this weekend while digging in rocks on the shores of Lake Huron where I look for seaglass. (I suppose lakeglass would be a more suitable term.) With my hands busy, my mind wandered.

I wasn't even thinking about the book at the time, yet it rushed at me like a large wave and solved a couple of the big problems with one opening scene that explained yet not overwhelmed the reader with information while jetting the story along smoothly. Yes, I made notes when I could, then later sat and wrote out the entire chapter. My next step is to add them to the novel and see how well it works and what other changes I need to make.

That solved one problem. Now I need to go back through the entire novel to make it flow.
I also have to figure out what to do with all my seaglass!

Have a wonderful day and let your creativity flow!

Diane Bator

Fall is Coming

Where did the summer go? Seems like the older I get the quicker time goes by. I like Fall, don't get me wrong. The colors, the smell, even the cooler weather. As most of you know, much as I love summer, I don't like the 90 degree days and I surely don't like the humidity. Especially not when I have to do yard work.
And there's plenty of that to do. I finally bought hubby a riding lawn mower so at least I don't have to cut the grass, well at least not all of it There's a few places he can cut with the rider, so I still have to bring out the other mower. And I have all the weeding and edging to do.
I bought a stand up grass trimmer for along the fence. Neither mower could get

that close. It sure saves a lot of time and energy. And I broke down and bought an edger for along the pavement. The yard looks much neater now, but it's going to take a couple times to get it where it should be.

The lady next door gave us a snowblower. I've never used one, and I can't say I'm looking forward to it.. Not that I mind using one, but I'm not looking forward to the cold weather and snow. It's not that I mind the cold, I just don't like wearing all those heavy clothes. It's so nice to go out without a jacket. But the cold weather will be here before we know it and I pray it will bring an end to this horrible virus. I'm so tired of wearing masks and social distancing. I'm a hugger and a toucher.  I miss that communication with my friends. I miss doing things we took so much for granted, like giving the sign of peace at church, sitting in front of, behind, or next to people we know. I miss seeing many people at church. I miss going in or out of the door I choose at the store.
I miss visiting people, going to lunch with my siblings.
But Fall is coming and with the cooler weather, leaves will take on their Fall colors and soon we'll have different outdoor work. Leaves to rake, lawns to cut for the last time, bulbs to plant for early spring flowers, patio furniture to store, and garden decorations to put away. I've always thought of Fall as a sad time. The trees become bare, flowers wilt, and the days grow shorter. I would rather have spring when new life abounds. Trees bud, flowers bloom, the days grow longer and warm weather comes.
It's been fairly warm so far, in fact downright hot, but next week temps will be more fall-like. I'm sure we'll get warmer weather this month. I hope we do. I'm still waiting for my tomatoes to ripen. They were off to a late start because the deer ate them before they had a chance to bud.

You can find more of my books here.

Writing the Weather by Priscilla Brown

Men are off Cristina's essentials list during her working holiday at a luxury Caribbean resort. 

But can the resort's zany charmer of a pilot break through her defences?

https://books2read.com/Where-the-Heart-Is

 Today, 31 August, is the last official day of winter in Australia. As I write this a few days prior, here in temperate New South Wales the blustery wind seemingly straight from Antarctica makes us long for spring. However, signs of the season change began to appear mid-August; fruit trees, ornamental and productive, display blossoms white or shades of pink - until the wind catches them. The yellows of daffodils and jonquils are such optimistic colours, and deciduous trees are starting to show lots of buds.

The weather may be the most widespread topic of conversation in areas where the weather is changeable. On a chilly wet day, we may exchange comments with strangers under umbrellas at the bus stop; or start a conversation about the heat as we drop onto a shared seat after jogging around the park.

One of my personal writing-related files contains sections in which I jot down words or phrases which interest me. I use the three hand-written pages of weather-associated words for ideas, to edit and re-write as necessary for the weather to fit or augment the plot and the characters, and to help me avoid cliches such as lashing rain, howling gale.

Those weather conditions in which we situate our people are usually there for a crucial reason: have them enjoy, or struggle against, to stop them from doing something, to put them in danger, to act as a source of tension between them, and ultimately to move the story along. Such circumstances create atmosphere, physical and/or emotional, affecting characters' moods, influencing the plot. For several of the weather episodes in my novels, I've needed to do considerable research, which for me is always an enjoyable task. I do some on line from weather and news reports, and from reading and viewing local information, and where possible from visiting the area.

During a trip some years ago to the Eastern Caribbean, I had no thought of setting a novel in a location entirely exotic for me; the contemporary romance Where the Heart Is emerged later. While I gave Cristina a dreamy Caribbean beach (plus a dreamy man) in gorgeous weather, I also involved her in a hurricane with a perilous wet and windy mountain rescue by motorbike. I didn't experience the extreme weather event I put her and the motorbike rider through, but I did gain background knowledge valuable for future use. And in this story, the sub-tropical climate contrasts with the temperate spring of her rural Australian home.

As I sign off on this post, the wind is still strong enough to blow a dog off a chain, and tonight will be a two or three dog night. Maybe these are Australian expressions? The number of dogs theoretically (perhaps practically!) to keep you warm in bed.






Hoping your weather is kind to you, Priscilla

https://bwlpublishing.ca

  

https://bookswelove.net/brown-priscilla 

https://priscillabrownauthor.com

 

Earth Walker

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A powerful connection to the earth is a common theme among all 1^st Nations’ people about whom I’ve read, whether they live north or south of the arbitrary lines European colonists drew upon their home land. In every story I read written by 1^st Nations’ People, there is a recollection of a childhood where adults have carefully fostered a deep consciousness of what European culture commonly puts in a generalized lump called “Nature.” It’s that experience with which we European moderns, the “come heres” of the western hemisphere, are -- every day-- less and less familiar.

Football with my cousin, 1950's

Instead of gazing at screens all day, most folks my age (+70) remember playing outside regularly, especially during school summer holidays. My house was near a dairy farm and the surrounding fields were in hay and alfalfa. The farmer didn’t care if my mother and I roamed across them, or if I went by myself to a wonderful pond adjacent to a woodlot. In the spring it was full of tadpoles, crayfish, and blue gills. Later, in summer, it was full of multicolored frogs. Butterflies and dragon flies sailed above muddy flats, and floated over flowering plants, whose names I did not know, although I much admired their bright colors and floating seeds.  

Sometimes I’d see rabbits, fox, or woodchucks, or come across deer at their midday rest.  Red-winged blackbirds nested among the cattails; purple martens performed their fighter-pilot maneuvers over the pond.  At home, we even had a mud nest of barn swallows every year on the far end of our porch—off-limits to us until they’d finished rearing their adorable, plump, dun-breasted family.

For several years as a young teen I was sent to a summer camp--my parents' were fighting their way toward a divorce--for the entire three months. This particular camp was truly rustic, with unheated cabins, water you carried in buckets, and a bunch of retired police horses. These days it would probably be closed down as unsanitary and unsafe. You could take a bath--if you were willing to go to the owner's house--once a week. Otherwise, you "bathed" in the farm pond in the afternoon.

Some water came into it from chilly springs , but a creek flowed in at one end and over a dam at the other, so it was constantly in motion. The pond had been part of the original farm for years, so it was established. Water snakes cruised among the lily pads and cattail beds. While those reedy spots were green and inviting in the slanting afternoon light, we stayed as far away as possible, treading water and playing mermaids in the middle with friends.

It was, among us campers, a badge of honor to never go to the big house and take a bath. How humiliating! How sorry we were for the girls whose parents insisted upon it! The rest of us washed our bodies and our hair in the pond. We floated bottles, half filled with air and half with shampoo, as well as cakes of Ivory soap on the surface beside us. After a day of playing games, hiking in the woods, riding and grooming horses, and entertaining ourselves with marathon games of jacks--we dismantled the ping pong table to use the smooth wooden surface--everyone was ready to wash off the sweat before dinner.

When I returned home at the end of August, at my mother's insistence, I marched straight upstairs and ran the bathtub full. Standing naked before the mirror, I could see the brown dirt residue left from three months of "bathing" in a silty farm pond. The swim suit outline was shades darker than my suntan.

Many years ago, my granddaughter was taken for a walk in the woods for the first time when she was around two years old. Her entire experience of "outdoors" up until then had been playing in groomed suburban yards, or passing through parking lots and shopping malls with her Mama. After a first walk with her daddy on a nature trail, she haughtily pronounced the leaf and stick strewn paths “messy and uneven.”

It’s a funny story, but it’s also sad, as it shows how limited a modern child’s experience often is of this world in which she lives.  Fortunately for her, Dad got the message. From then on, he spent time with his girl out-of-doors, so she wouldn’t suffer from what I’ve come to look upon as Nature Deprivation. She can now out-walk her Grandma any day.

Snow picnic, 1970's, at a favorite spot

When she went to college, this eighteen year old was surprised to find "Walking" was a physical education course. As phys. ed. was required of freshmen and sophomores, she signed up, and then she was again surprised by the exhaustion and pain of which her classmates complained.

Considering all this, I guess it’s no wonder that so many people today are disrespectful of the earth, especially if shopping malls, macadam, and the virtual world are all they experience. It’s not only a great emotional and spiritual misfortune for them personally, but I believe this disconnection is the root cause of our civilization's current mega-scale disregard for our only home, our birth mother. 

Pipeline explosion

I’ve been reading To You We Shall Return by a Lakota author, Joseph Marshall III. This is part of an ongoing attitude adjustment exercise, as I hope to broaden my outlook and see the world through another cultural lens. (The one with which I was raised seems to have ever so many blind spots.) From that book is a Traditional Lakota Prayer to Mother Earth: 

 Grandmother,

You who listen and hear all,

You from whom all good things come,

It is your embrace we feel

When we return to you.

~~Juliet Waldron

All My Historical Novels

Genesee's story:

 Red men & White, at war in the world and in her blood.

All Because of Neil Diamond by Connie Vines

Perhaps it's because of the never-ending-heat-wave here in southern California, 103 - 107 degrees (39 - 41 Celsius), or because my two pups (Chanel and Gavin) are following me around and continually begging to go outside so that they can experience sun-stroke first hand--but I find myself mentally designing my new and improved garden throughout  the evening.

My front yard has a huge mimosa tree, a small (stunted) mimosa tree, a southern magnolia tree and a grass lawn.  There is an area at the front of my patio which would make a lovely rose garden.  It's the perfect place for my roses.  Full-sun, facing west, and the area is nothing but dirt.

I've grown roses in the past, when my children were very young. During that time, I selected  the run-of-the-mill-generic varieties you find at you local garden--on sale and then discounted.  And, if I recall correctly, my rose bushes were particularly thorny.

Well, this time I was intent on finding  the perfect rose for my 'imaginary' garden's focal point.

Do you know how many 'new' varieties of roses are posted on the garden sites and Pinterest?
Do you realize how many photos there are to gawk over?

Too many to count, that's for certain.

These are three varieties of roses which caught and held my attention:

The Ingrid Bergman rose is so beautiful. 

.

The New Orleans rose would be perfect

This is the rose I should select as it goes along with my New Orleans/Cajun theme of my next release: Gumbo Ya Ya.


However, this is the rose bush I will be searching for during planting season:

The Neil Diamond rose is my favorite!

 Do you have a favorite rose or type of flower is a 'must' for your garden?  Do your have any gardening tips you'd like to share?

Well, now that I've selected my first rose bush of the planting season, I can get back to my novel.

🌹Thank you, 🎤Neil Diamond!


I always try to add something new for my readers to enjoy 😋

Rose Petal Tea

 

Ingredients

2 cups fresh fragrant rose petals  (about 15 large roses)*
3 cups water
Honey or granulated sugar to taste
Instructions
Clip and discard bitter white bases from the rose petals; rinse petals thoroughly and pat dry.

In a small saucepan over medium-high heat, place the prepared rose petals.  Cover with water and bring just to a simmer; let simmer for approximately 5 minutes or until the petals become discolored (darkened).

Remove from heat and strain the hot rose petal liquid into teacups. Add honey or sugar to taste.

Makes 4 servings.

Recipe Notes
* All roses that you intend to consume must be free of pesticides.  Do not use or eat flowers from florists, nurseries, or garden centers. In many cases these flowers have been treated with pesticides not labeled for food crops. The tastiest roses are usually the most fragrant. 

Happy Reading!

Connie 

Fall of 2020!

Early 2021

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