The first time I realised what I was writing really was something, not just me wanting to be someone, or pretending to be, was when I wrote a passage about dad and started crying while I was writing. I had never done that before, never even been close. I wrote about dad and the tears were streaming down my cheeks, I could barely see the keyboard or the screen, I just hammered away. Of the existence of the grief inside me that had been released at that moment I had known nothing; I had not had an inkling. My father was an idiot, I wanted nothing to do with him, and it cost me nothing to keep well away from him. It wasn't a question of keeping away from something, it was a question of the something not existing; nothing about him touched me. That was how it had been, but then I had sat down to write, and the tears poured forth.

karl ove knausgaard, Karl Ove Knausgaard - A Dea…, loc. 2513