I've recently found out that I happened to spend a couple of days in a room facing south, where Astrid Lindgren, the heroine of my school years (and translated to 90+ languages,) had spent a couple of weeks half a century ago. I've received no assistance whatsoever from her Master Detective Bill Bergson of her Lillköping City to figure it out, though. Apart from a pinch of general inspiration, at most; general because I'm not going to write children's lit. Nor have I taken her prankster's (Emil of Lönneberga) advice to scrump a couple of fruits in the surrounding gardens ;-)
Some authors of your childhood have just engraved themselves on your memory, from near cradle to near grave, and in between.
Their spirits entice the subconscious to come. They gently whisper they're still around, and remind you what you read a hundred years ago. :-)
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