A long time ago I read One Hundred Years of Solitude by Márquez. I enjoyed the magic realism, but the book cursed me. When I lived Liverpool, my flat was close to the ruins of an old church, once used as a base for one of my ancestors. There was a time capsule from this ancestor, which turned up when a school was digging to make a new school gym. If I had not read the book, I would have tried to imagine a story that this ancestor was trying to communicate with me. But Márquez was there first. He blocked my creativity.