My first novel was VERY loosely inspired by real people and actual events. Of course by the time the write in me got through with it dozens of people had been rolled up into a handful of character, some people had been reduce to fractions of their “native” personalities and circumstances and events came more from my imagination than from personal history.
Well, an aquaintence of mine asked to read it. I heard nothing from her for a month, then one day she walks into my office, thorws the book at me (literally), slaps me across the face and accuses me of airing her dirty laundry where anyone can see it. We didn’t talk for months after that.
Ironically, I don’t even know which character she identified with as she didn’t serve as the inspiration for anything in the book and she never told me what had set her off. I guess something I cooked up just hit a nerve and she ASSUMED it was based on her because we knew each other.