We say we want it. From everyone. About everything.
But do we really?
The short answer, I think, is no. We don't want honesty. The real, grit your teeth, clench your jaw and hear the truth, truth. Certainly we want to know when a pair of jeans makes our asses look like a parking lot or when half of dinner is sticking in our teeth. But we don't want to hear the real stuff.
We don't want to hear that we're wrong. That we are not always the shined up, polished versions of ourselves that we're only really able to see from behind our two eyes. We don't want to hear that little by little, we're making mistakes...we're doing something wrong...we're hurting people. The people we love. That's the problem with honesty. It sounds really good, rolls off the tongue like ice cream. Only it doesn't taste like ice cream...it tastes like escargot. Or caviar. Or something equally slimy and bitter and nauseating.
And so....the quandary. If writers take from the lives they know...how do they do so without hurting feelings? And how do friends know the depth of translation and interpretation and observation? To put it plainly...how do they understand the two sides of honesty...
The side that tells it like it is...and the side that loves you anyway.