Bibliophiles Still Heed the Advice of Latin Philosophers

Serendipity strikes again––and I’m in bibliophile’s paradise once more. Just when I was starting to lose my spark for the long writing road in front of me, just when I thought about giving up on finishing my next novel, Blessings from the Edge, a chance stop last week at a historic bookstore in Montevideo, Uruguay, revived my enthusiasm for the writing life. I was not on one of my international book tours, nor was I looking to buy Spanish-language books. I was simply strolling through the old town, when a sparkling beam of light reflecting from the wavy bombé glass windows of the Librería Puro Verso beckoned me in.

I approached the tall windows of the historic art nouveau building and peered inside the Puro Verso bookstore. Inside were studious bookworms, deep in their respective reveries of skillfully arranged words that would soon jumpstart dreams of times long ago or fantasies begging to be read. These were my people inside the Puro Verso—yes, by common ancestry, but more significantly, by a common love of books; all of us bibliophiles were captivated by the sight of thousands of books on diverse subjects and in a multitude of languages. As I walked up the elegant marble staircase, a large sign in Latin stopped me dead in my tracks. It read: Veritas filia mendacii est.

I suppose I could have asked an employee to help me with the translation, but as I struggled with the Latin words, I kept on hearing the distant voice of the mother superior of my convent school spouting these exact words as a warning. Veritas filia mendacii est: Truth is the flawed daughter of time. This was a message with many meanings that demanded my reflection right there and then. My rumination on this message led me to one conclusion: I must continue to write Blessings from the Edge. I must follow the motto of the famous Flemish publishing beacon, Plantin-Moretus, which states, labore et constantia: by labor and constancy. Or, in contemporary lingo: back to work!

Mystery Unveiled in Four-Thousand-Page, Four-Hundred-Year-Old Ecuadorian Book

This blog post is for those of you who often ask me questions about ancient Inca mummies. You’ll recall from my novel Missing in Machu Picchu that the revered mummified corpses of the Inca ancestors were known as mallqui. You might also recall that the Inca ruler Atahualpa was held as a prisoner by the Spanish in 1532 until his followers filled a room with gold in exchange for his freedom. The Spanish grew impatient waiting for the gold to arrive from Quito, so they garroted Atahualpa.

But the saga continues to this day. The 400-year-old mystery of what happened to Atahualpa’s corpse, his honorable mallqui, and the gold treasures are on the way to being solved by Tamara Estupinan, an Ecuadorean historian who has methodically been solving this mystery for over thirty years. For her, it all started with a hunch about the connection of the word mallqui and the name of the present-day hamlet of Malqui—and its connection to a four-thousand-page, four hundred-year-old leather-cover book that included the will of Atahualpa’s eldest son.

Just picture her, hunched over the four thousand pages, reading detail after detail for the last thirty-plus years, until she started piecing together the puzzle of the location of Atahualpa’s corpse—and possibly also—the hiding place of his gold. This historian is a bibliophile’s true role model!

Bibliomania, Biblio Novel, Biblio Larceny…and Me


As an author of historical fiction, I am thrilled when life imitates art. In my 2013 novel, Missing in Machu Picchu, I wrote a chilling, cautionary tale about a treacherous hike on a fictional trail parallel to the famous Inca Trail near Machu Picchu. Later that same year, archaeologists uncovered a real-life trail, eerily parallel to this famous trail—and to the one in my novel. In this instance, life most definitely imitated art (my novel).

Now, I’m experiencing a bombardment of instances of serendipity that proves that art imitates life—even if it’s life from centuries ago. A few months back, I began writing a biblio novel with all the elements we bibliophiles adore. It has the dark elements of bibliomania, the intrigue of biblio larceny, and a scholarly tribute to a specific element of the printing history of Venice. Like all writers, I dug deep into this subject to make sure my topic’s originality and intrigue would appeal to my readers. For years, I researched my upcoming biblio novel, traveling from Venice to the cities of its ancient empire along the Dalmatian Coast, as well as Greece, Istanbul, and the Black Sea.

I’ve had nothing but the world of books on my mind for the past year. As I wrote about bibliomania in sixteenth-century Venice, I was barraged with current news items about bibliomania. Last week, I was writing about biblio larceny back in history when I stumbled upon The Guardian headline “Thieves steal £2m of rare books by abseiling into warehouse” ( I can’t wait to see what modern-day examples of serendipity come my way as I continue writing my sixteenth-century biblio novel, Blessings from the Edge (Publish Date December 2017).

Cyber Pirates Stole My Intellectual Property Again

Art Copyright Cecilia Velastegui

It’s too bad I have my two future novels already researched and outlined; otherwise I would love to write a scathing novel about cyber pirates. The timing couldn’t be any better. These are thieves who’ve stolen my novels—my intellectual property—and offered them ostensibly for a free download on the internet. However, if one is gullible enough to reply to their insistent free offers, the only way to actually download my works is to sign up with them on their constantly changing websites. The interested reader will be asked to fill out surveys, agree to other “free” offers, and divulge information that will further assist these thieves in overflowing their pirate chests. Cease and desist letters are a joke to these thieves, and they continue to sail the internet with impunity.

I don’t agree with recommendations that I pirate right back by directing my followers to these nefarious websites. This outlook is built on the flimsy premise that by cooperating with the pirates, authors can make these vile sites lead readers to my other works for sale in legitimate venues. I refuse to help the pirates wrap their illegal tentacles around more readers. There is no justification for cyber piracy. Selling or sharing illegal copies of novels is not only in contravention of copyright laws; it is harmful to authors in emotional, creative, and financial ways. Please remember that if you download an unauthorized free copy of one of my books, you are taking money right out of my pocket.

Travel and change of place impart new vigor to the mind

“Travel and change of place impart new vigor to the mind.” – Seneca

There’s no better way to start 2017 than with words of wisdom from more than two thousand years ago. Because I have been fortunate to travel to 108 countries, I must agree with Seneca, the Roman philosopher. Every time I’ve traveled abroad, my mind has been bombarded with a kaleidoscope of details for future novels. In 2013, I returned to the Loire Valley to revisit places where I had lived as a college student. While visiting the château at Blois, I saw a small oil painting of what at a distance looked like a whimsical cat, standing upright and dressed in a pink embroidered dress with a white lace collar. Except this was not a cat. She was Antonietta Gonzalez, a sixteenth-century girl who suffered from what is now known as “hypertrichosis universalis,” a condition in which the whole body is covered with hair. Once I returned to California, I read all I could find on Antonietta and her entire family. This led me to research about other girls from the Hispanic world who had been displayed publicly for their unique physical traits. Their physical conditions had brought them fame—along with shame, disappointment, and tragedy. I will introduce you to each of these unique girls in the near future. In the meantime, I am finalizing Lucia Zárate, the odyssey of the world’s smallest woman.

Peruvian Mummies Still Talk


Peruvian mummies refuse to play dead. In fact, despite their now empty craniums and lifeblood that has long drained from their bodies, their hushed demands or whispers of love can still be heard by those who carry within them the mummies’ inherited DNA. But it is only a handful of their descendants who still honor the mummies’ enigmatic cries. Ages ago, the advice of Incan leader Manco Capac rang in all ears of the empire like a clap of thunder; even coming from a mummified sovereign, his powerful words rang true. Now the majority of the mummies’ descendants prefer to listen only to scientific and anthropological explanations for how and why the mummies continue to be rediscovered in glacial crevasses, musty caves, and cloud-swept volcanoes. Contemporary society listens only to scientific and anthropologic data pertaining to newfound mummies. We are intrigued to hear that the Ice Maiden’s stomach still contains the frozen food she ate and that she died of a blunt trauma blow. We listen to reports that tell us X-rays confirm the Chachapoya mummies of the Peruvian cloud forest had their internal organs removed, and we wait to hear about the methods used to preserve their skin. Although the scientific language of logic and reason has practically duct-taped the mummies’ own communication in the twenty-first century, the mummies’ visceral messages continue to hum in the bone marrow of a few of their descendants like a huayruru rattle shaking on a foggy night in the cloud forest or a lone pan-pipe tune ascending the frigid Andean peaks.

Every couple of years, the mummies’ faint echoes can still be heard as they resurface from their centuries-old slumber to remind their descendants that the venerable Incan ways must live on, that the tradition of paying respect to one’s ancestors demands adherence, that one must toe the line or face the consequences––no matter the time span. Since 5000 B.C., long before the Egyptian civilization mummified its rulers, Peruvian mummies have existed and lived side-by-side with those whose pulsating hearts and processing gray matter still flowed with energy, admiration, and loyalty for their mummified ancestors. It was this love and these fervent beliefs that kept the mummies alive in the collective memory of their descendants. In this exchange of love, respect, and energy, the living continued to hear the wisdom of their deceased elders––even if the mummies’ vocal cords no longer emitted any sound waves.

In the old days, before the Spanish raised havoc and tried to decimate the Incan civilization, the ancestral mummies––the mallquis––lived in glorious luxury in their own sumptuous palaces, dressed in gold, silver, and emeralds. Their attendants could still hear the mallquis’ commands and maintained them in the manner they were accustomed to when their hearts still pumped blood. The mallquis’ purple potatoes continued to be harvested, the black llamas sacrificed, and the holy huacas honored. They were paraded with pomp and circumstance during the important festivals, and although unspun cotton filled their cheeks, nostrils, and throats, themallquis’ sheer presence spoke volumes to the people.

The Spanish conquistadores did not hear a single word from the mummies, nor did they want to hear anything other than the tortured voices of their indigenous prisoners telling them where the gold, silver, and emeralds were hidden. Two steps behind the conquistadores stood the Catholic monks, hell-bent on demolishing the mallquis and anything else held sacred by the Inca. The monks wanted to extirpate the idols––the demons, as they called them. And, after they removed any valuables from the mummy bundles, only the cries of the mummies’ attendants and the centuries-old mummy ashes filled the air of the Spanish bonfires.

By the time American explorer Hiram Bingham arrived in Peru in 1910, the Incan shamans had escaped to the deepest cloud forest and into the most precipitous frozen peaks to hide the remaining mallquis. But money talks louder than any word, and some of the remaining mummies soon were escorted out of their hidden caves and onto a ship headed for the Ivy League and other East Coast institutions. The mummy bundles that had previously been cherished and loved by their attendants now were lying in the cold storage rooms of the American institutions, waiting to be prodded, inspected, X-rayed, and carbon-dated. For almost one hundred years they were disrobed of their finest vicuña textiles wraps, their skin, hair, and teeth examined to confirm, refute or speculate on this or that theory.

Then, in the 1990s, a new cry was heard from the highest peaks of the Andes Mountains: a frozen ice maiden had been uncovered—a mummy so perfectly preserved that the downy hair on her arms could still be detected, and a heart full of frozen blood waited to give further clues about diseases and viruses. Her physical perfection had earned her the privilege of being sacrificed in the capacocha ritual manner.
A few years later, the ever-present scavengers and thieves, the huaqueros, found dozens of Chachapoya mummies hidden for centuries in the cliff-side caves of the cloud forest. The only thing they heard was the potential exchange of money for their black-market commerce in mummies. This is the lot of Peruvian mummies: scientists hear only the siren song of logical explanation, and anthropologists seek to find gems of previously unexplained artifacts, but only a select few hear the mummies’ pearls of wisdom.