Can you be a great writer without a tortured past?

I always thought that to be an amazing writer you had to have a traumatic past.

It felt as though the trauma these people suffered fuelled their artistic engines and forced them to think outside the box.

It frustrated me because I desperately wanted to be one of these talented creators but I felt I hadn’t suffered enough to become one.

Compare my early life to Ernest Hemingway’s: kids at school didn’t like that I was quiet or that I was a foot taller than them so they used to force me to fight and now I have problems socialising as an adult.

That was the extent of my suffering, now lets look at Hemingway: aged 18 he was hit with a mortar shell whilst serving as an ambulance driver in WW1.

Three other men were hit by that same mortar; one died instantly, one died in hospital after having his legs blown off, and the third was carried by Hemingway, who had shrapnel lodged in his right foot and knee, to the first aid dugout.

Then, whilst in hospital being treated for his wounds, he fell in love with a nurse, got engaged, and she left him for another man.

This tragic incident, and others throughout his life, must have affected his work, his health, his relationships and likely contributed to his eventual suicide.

But why did Hemingway’s work resonate with people so strongly?

This question is best answered by Christopher Zara, the author of Tortured Artists, who says: “The central function of an artist is to convey and idea.

“That idea can be visceral or intellectual; it can be conveyed through a painting, a song, a poem or a guy dancing around in a moose costume.

“The method doesn’t matter. Artists, both brilliant and hackneyed, create out of their desire to communicate.

“But it’s we art lovers who invest our attention, our time, in their creations. Why should we invest in a work of art that was created without conflict, or struggle, or pain?

“Where is the challenge?”

That final question is the key; why bother investing your time in a work unless it challenges you, unless it opens you up to your own emotions, your own past, or your own life?

We all have our issues; some of us have trouble communicating with our peers because we were bullied at school, some can’t trust their partners because of past infidelity or abuse, and some have problems they’re not even aware of.

But are these issues devastating enough to draw upon when we need to convey sorrow, pain or conflict in our work?

Nathan Englander, the author of What We Talk About When We Talk About Anne Frank, seems to think so.

When he was younger he dreamed of being a writer but his childhood wasn’t exciting enough; he just sat in his suburban house and watched TV.

He felt that his past restricted him to either writing a series of TV sitcoms or a book called Little House on the Prarie is on at five o’clock.

But then he realised that most of the books we love are based on events that didn’t happen to the people writing them; empathy was the key.

The reason we love them so much is because they are truer than truth, there is a great knowing behind them because of the emotion they embody.

If you have ever known happiness, been truly sad, or longed for something, then you can communicate that to your audience through your writing.

If you longed for an Atari 2600 game console when you were a kid, as Englander did, you could use that emotion to portray longing for a lost love or for the liberation of your country.

“If you have known longing then you can write longing”, he said.

You don’t have to be tortured to be an artist; you can take an everyday emotion and apply it to a fictitious situation that embodies that same emotion.

When it comes to rising above the sea of writers out there you have to use every weapon in your arsenal, and emotions are some of the strongest we have; don’t let them go to waste.