The Personal Amongst the Novel

Theoretically, a novel can be written about anyone. Our lives can be, and are, stories, after all. But the issue gets more complicated, as this notion becomes too all-encompassing. I think the question at hand then shifts to: “Should a novel be written about anyone?” Maybe I’m placing writing subjects on too high of a pedestal. But, at least, for me, I believe literature should be especially engaging. I also believe in verisimilitude, in the sense that an author cannot write about a real subject without keeping in line with his subject’s specific mentality and emphasis and world view. Hence  I would never desire to read any book about a typical middle class American who is obsessed with consuming, one who rarely thinks about the deeper things in life, one who narcissistically pursues living life, one who has friends (but not really). Of course, there are a myriad of different angles with which one can approach this specific individual with a fresh and exhilarating perspective. But like I already said, unless we can see this individual as s/he sees her/himself (which I would hope is the same way s/he wants to be seen), the portrayal of this individual is otherwise problematic.
    And to the question of reading the novel about me, I believe I would. But I’m not quite sure if I’ve distanced myself enough to answer this question accurately. If someone did indeed write this, I would read it just out of curiosity. But I do wonder about whether I would get sick of reliving and rethinking and reseeing many of my past life events. Maybe this reading would give me a better perspective on myself (of course, this is very individualized as I’m not always as well grounded in myself and my experiences and my past as I believe I should be). Still, I do wonder about whether my story is worthy.
    And though a book is a very private matter, it can also be a social one as well and I must ask how much authority I have concerning who the book can reach. Concerning our personal lives, I’d love to have this book read and reviewed by my family and close friends, as illumined knowledge fosters a deep understanding and love that transcends what is otherwise seen and expressed. We do read to sympathize after all, right? At the very least, I do. But when it comes to the publicity of others, I’m not quite sure if I’m as ready to share myself. Even if I’m technically and idealistically immortalized in the completion of this project, my level of comfortability is still too low to allow this to follow through. Also, I’m not even sure if others will care enough to read it. And I can’t really blame any of these people either, as I believe the personal moves us to degrees a generic stranger can only dream of.