What good is a happy childhood to you anyhow?

Today I went to a meet-the-author at the new bookstore in downtown Suzhou. He reminded me of that always reoccurring theme that true art comes only out of suffering. As if unhappiness gives birth to truth and ideas that a happy past simply cannot produce. I have heard it said that people who have not suffered have nothing to say worth saying- meaning not that the only things worth saying are the miserable, unhappy events of one’s life, but more that realizations, great epiphanies of thought and philosophy arise out of the state of mind suffering puts you into. I’ll admit, I find myself baffled by this theory.

On the one hand, I do tend to gravitate towards books that describe someone’s rise out of hardship- books that rip at your heart or your mind as you struggle with the characters to overcome whatever demons may be rummaging through their lives. Though now that I write it down, I realize that it is not the struggle I appreciate, but the achievement. It is the opportunity to share in the triumph of a character that makes me fall in love with a story. Even so, would these stories of personal victories be convincing if told from the mouth of a cheerful ex-volleyball team captain? A woman spawned from a successful marriage and raised in a home filled with snicker doodles and Christmas trees?
It is certainly depressing to think that a happy woman, however clever and creative, is simply incapable of producing the literature she enjoys most. Perhaps it is so depressing that if you thought on it long enough, you might just be able to squeeze some quality prose out of the experience.