ChapelleDoree . 6/20/25 ChapelleDoree . 6/20/25

Catwalk Bed Hair and Cultivated Roots

On the Garden of Wake, the Bloom of Fiction, and the Companion That Follows

In his review of The Age of Unbecoming (the third volume in the serialized presentation of The Wake of Expectations), Matt McAvoy described my writing style as “catwalk bed hair”—an image that still makes me smile. It’s a compliment, but also a gentle exposure: he’s saying that the prose seems casual and unstructured, but clearly isn’t. That there’s deliberate styling behind the seeming mess. That the hair doesn’t fall that way by accident.

It’s an apt metaphor, and not just for the style—but for the structure beneath The Wake of Expectations and the larger project it initiated.

The Wake of Expectations didn’t arrive in a single stroke. It grew slowly—over years, even decades. And I don’t mean that I worked on it every day for twenty years. I mean it grew like something alive: dormant at times, flowering at others, sending roots deeper into things I hadn’t yet processed. As I described in my earlier post, it wasn’t a house I designed and built. It was a tree I planted, then lived with. It changed as I changed.

Wake wasn’t complete when I finished it. Not really. It wasn’t complete until A Pleasant Fiction bloomed.

That book—the so-called offshoot—grew faster. It sprouted from the same root system but flowered differently. And its arrival transformed the entire landscape. If Wake is the patient tree and Fiction the sudden blossom, then the combined effect turned the backyard into something more like a botanical garden. The second book gave the first its shape. Its meaning. Its context.

And that’s what Coming of Age, Coming to Terms is about.

It’s not a manual. It’s not a blueprint. It’s more like a walk through the garden with the person who planted it. The guide doesn’t pretend to explain everything, nor to claim that every flower grew exactly where or how it was intended. But it tries to show what’s there. What grew wild. What was pruned. What may have been overlooked—and what has quietly taken root.

The companion doesn’t just reflect on the content of the books. It reflects on the process. On the interplay between conscious and unconscious creation. On how a narrative can keep revealing things to the author long after it’s written. And on how, sometimes, the work knows more than you do.

That’s what I hope readers of the companion will experience. Not just behind-the-scenes notes, or analytical essays—but a sense that these books were part of something living. Something that grew slowly, then all at once. Something that may look like bedhair, but that carries the quiet discipline of cultivation.

And for those who’ve walked through this literary garden already, I hope the companion offers a reason to return. Maybe to notice something new. Or to realize that what looked like chaos was, all along, in bloom.

Javier

Writing My Life Into the Box

When I talk about The Wake of Expectations, I often describe it as a long, slow cultivation—something organic, unpredictable, and expansive. It grew in layers, revealing new branches over the years as I returned to it, pruned it, and gave it space to become what it needed to be. But when I speak about A Pleasant Fiction, the relationship is different. It’s no longer just a tree in a garden. It’s something more refined—more deliberate. Not artificial, but curated. The difference lies in origin. Wake is emotional truth told through fiction. APF is lived experience, written into fiction. And that changes everything.

In my interview with Davona on my second (simulated) podcast appearance, I talked about autofiction as a form of liberation. Wake is not memoir. It’s not autobiography. The gap between reality and the page is significant—and that’s intentional. I needed fiction to create a safe space for honesty. The act of fictionalizing gave me the distance to explore raw emotions and unresolved tensions. It freed me from the obligation of strict accuracy and allowed me to reach for something deeper than mere fact: emotional truth.

But A Pleasant Fiction is a different animal. It began as memoir. It was, quite literally, a documentation of my grief. Of my brother’s death. Of my parents’ absence. Of my loss of faith, and my stumbling return to meaning through friendship, art, and memory. It wasn’t until later that I realized I needed to put that story into the box—the fictional universe I had already built in Wake. Because only then could I really see it clearly.

That box—the fictional world of Calvin McShane—isn’t just a setting. It’s a container. It’s the parallel universe where my life gets refracted, where experience becomes story, and where pain can be shaped into something meaningful. And so, A Pleasant Fiction became Calvin’s memoir. Not mine. But in transforming it into his, I reclaimed my own.

That transformation wasn’t just literary. It was existential.

Through Calvin, I could revisit moments I hadn’t fully processed. I could let my characters voice things I hadn’t been able to say aloud. I could reframe events not to change their outcome, but to change my relationship to them. The story didn’t just reveal things about the characters—it revealed things about me. About how I grieve. About what I believe. About what I regret. And about what I still hold onto.

This is the paradox of autofiction: that by giving yourself permission to invent, you get closer to the truth. That by stepping into a fictional frame, you can finally look reality in the eye.

I said in the Logan podcast that sometimes the work reveals things to you—not because you planned them, but because they were there all along, buried in the narrative, waiting to be uncovered. Wake was a conversation between my conscious and unconscious mind. A Pleasant Fiction was something else: it was a reckoning. A moment where fiction and memoir met—not to blur the line, but to illuminate it.

What started as grief became narrative. What began as pain became perspective. And what had once felt like a private ache became a shared human story—one told in the voice of a fictional character, inside a fictional world, but anchored in something real.

This is what I mean when I say I put my life into the box. Not to hide it. But to preserve it. To shape it. To understand it.

And maybe, in doing so, to help someone else do the same.

Javier

ChapelleDoree . 6/17/25 ChapelleDoree . 6/17/25

Creation as Dialogue: What Writing Taught Me About God

Or: Why Calvin Sometimes Surprises Me

There’s a moment in the Logan (simulated) podcast where I describe my writing process not as a series of decisions, but as an unfolding dialogue—an evolving conversation between myself and the work. I’ve come to believe that the most powerful stories are not simply delivered from the mind of the author, fully formed, but are gradually revealed—sometimes to the writer most of all.

That might sound pretentious, but I don’t mean it to be. This isn’t about divine inspiration or literary genius. It’s more like this: you begin a story, and over time the story starts speaking back. You write a character, and that character resists your plans. You set events in motion, and you realize only later what they were truly about. The work teaches you something you didn’t know you knew.

And if that’s true—if creation is not a monologue, but a relationship—then the analogy to theology becomes hard to ignore.

There’s a particular theological idea that’s always stuck with me: the notion that God created man not out of a need for control, but from a yearning for companionship. That He made space for humanity to grow, even to suffer, not because He was cruel or omnisciently bored, but because He was lonely. He wanted dialogue. He wanted love, which only exists if the beloved is free.

Writers, in our own small way, mirror this. We don’t write just to control. We write to understand. We make characters in our image, and then we let them stray. We let the story breathe. We create something that speaks back to us. And in that reflection, we learn something about who we are.

Some traditions call this the Tzimtzum—the mystical idea that God contracted Himself to make room for the world. Some philosophers, like Martin Buber, say that meaning only emerges in the “I–Thou” relationship—in true dialogue. Even Moltmann, in The Crucified God, speaks of a divine vulnerability—the pain of loving something that has its own will.

I’m not claiming to be God. I’m saying that storytelling, at its best, shares something with this model of creation: it begins with intent but becomes something freer, more complex, more meaningful than the sum of its parts. The story begins with you, but it does not end as you. It grows beyond your control—and that’s the point.

That’s what happened with The Wake of Expectations and A Pleasant Fiction. And that’s what Coming of Age, Coming to Terms is trying to explore. Not just what I wrote, but why—and what it might mean, even beyond my original intentions.

Because Calvin surprised me. So did Dani. So did Jake.
And maybe, if I’ve done my job, they’ll surprise you too.

Javier

ChapelleDoree . 6/16/25 ChapelleDoree . 6/16/25

I Didn’t Start a Podcast. I Built a Mirror.

Let’s be clear: I don’t have a podcast.

No one’s inviting me onto theirs. And I’m not chasing that either. I’m not trying to go viral. I’m not looking to be a guest, or a brand, or a personality. I’m a writer.

And yet… here I am, posting a clip from a second show that doesn’t technically exist.

No, I didn’t start a podcast. I created two fictional ones—voiced by AI, partially scripted by me, produced in collaboration with tools like ChatGPT and ElevenLabs. The hosts aren’t real. The format is fake. But the answers? The content? That’s 100% me.

Those are my actual words. Even if the voice saying them isn’t mine.

Yes, They’re Infomercials. But They’re Honest.

If you’re thinking these podcasts have a kind of 90s infomercial vibe, you’re not wrong. They’re performance, yes. They’re stylized. They’re basically Soloflex videos for the books—equal parts literary reflection and creative presentation.

But here’s the thing:
Those SoloFlex infomercials? They were selling something real.
The Muscle Machine works. I still have two of them—and a Rockit, too. Because they did what they said they’d do. (And they’re built like tanks!) And honestly? The infomercials were kind of great. Truly entertaining—if a little uncomfortably homoerotic for a cishet adolescent boy in the ‘90s.

I can’t even tell you how many times I watched those Soloflex informercials…but it was a lot. Just for freakin’ fun. And for motivation, too.

That’s how I think of the podcasts.
They’re staged, yes. But they’re not selling a scam.
They’re selling the work.
And just like those muscle machines, the work does what it’s supposed to do.

The podcasts show you what’s behind the books. They explain the intention.
They invite you into the emotional core.

The voice may be artificial. The structure may be a simulation.
But the message? The message is real.

The Book Is Fiction. The Feelings Aren’t.

People still struggle with this: the line between fiction and truth. But for me, it’s always been clear.

The Wake of Expectations is fiction.
A Pleasant Fiction is fiction.
But the ache, the longing, the guilt, the laughter, the trying—that’s real.

So it makes sense, doesn’t it, that I’d extend that same ethos to the podcast?

I didn’t want to sit in front of a camera. I didn’t want to answer watered-down questions from someone who skimmed a few pages and wanted a neat tagline. So I built my own interview—one that asked the questions I thought mattered.

This isn’t some AI hallucination of what I might say. These are my actual thoughts, shaped into my actual sentences, spoken by a voice that only sounds artificial. What you're hearing is me—just filtered through a stylized medium.

This Isn’t About Fame. It’s About Resonance.

If you want to know who I am, read the books. That’s it. That’s the access point. You don’t need to follow me on social media. You don’t need to see me on a podcast circuit. You already have the most unfiltered version of me, because I already gave it to you.

And if you’ve read those books—really read them—then you probably know me as well as you know anyone else.
Not because I told you every fact or described every event.
But because I told the truth—about how things feel, and what things mean.

Most people don’t share that.
Not even with the people they love.
They talk about what happened. I talk about how it changed things.
They offer plot. I offer perspective.

And yes, there’s a cost to that—vulnerability, exposure, the discomfort of being fully seen.
But there’s also a reward: liberation.

There’s nothing left to hide. Nothing that matters, anyway.

As Alan Moore said in V for Vendetta: “Artists use lies to tell the truth.”

That’s what the books are. That’s what the podcasts are.

Just a writer, telling the truth—about how it felt, and what it meant.
Even if he had to write fiction and build a fake show to do it.

Further Viewing / Listening:

Watch the original SoloFlex infomercial (yes, this was real and yes, it worked):
Soloflex: World's First Infomercial
Watch “Davona’s Literary Hour”:
Davona's Literary Hour with guest Javier De Lucia

The full transcript of “Davona’s Literary Hour” is presented below:

Please note: A Pleasant Fiction will be released eBook and Kindle Unlimited on July 1, 2025. This podcast episode is presented as occurring after that date.

📚 Mild Spoiler Notice – Davona Would Want You to Know
This transcript includes thoughtful discussion about A Pleasant Fiction and The Wake of Expectations, including light spoilers about character identities and emotional arcs. Nothing major is spoiled, but if you’re someone who likes to go in completely fresh, consider reading the books first. That said, this conversation is designed to invite you in, not give anything away. If you're here, you're ready.

Davona:

Well hello, my lovelies, and welcome back to Davona’s Literary Hour — where the stories are rich, the questions are deep, and the tea is always hot.

Today… we’ve got something special.

He’s the award-winning author of The Wake of Expectations — a bold, funny, and emotionally devastating coming-of-age novel that had me laughing, crying, and texting my therapist. And now, he’s back with a follow-up that dares to dig even deeper.

A Pleasant Fiction just dropped, and honey, let me tell you — there is nothing ‘pleasant’ about the way this book wrecked me… in the best possible way.

Please welcome to the show, the mysterious, the meticulous, the emotionally reckless — Javier De Lucia.

Javier, baby, welcome to the show. How are you feeling today?

Javier:

I'm feeling great, Davona. So happy to be here. Thanks for having me.

Davona:

Oh, I’m the one who should be thanking you, sugar. Between Wake and A Pleasant Fiction, I’ve been walking around like I’m recovering from emotional whiplash. And don’t even get me started on that companion book — I needed a nap after reading the table of contents.

So let’s ease into this. For those who may not know you yet — the ones living under a literary rock — give us the quick version. Who is Javier De Lucia? Where do you come from, and what twisted little road led you to writing these heartbreakers?

Javier:

Well, first of all, I'm a Gen X kid....well, not a kid really...Not anymore.

But I grew up in the 80s and 90s. And for all your younger audience members, I can assure you, the stories you've heard are true. We drank from the garden hose, spent most of our lives outside, and were brutally honest with each other.

Too honest sometimes, sure. We didn't pull any punches.

Davona:

Hmm...See, now that tracks. Because I was reading The Wake of Expectations thinking, ‘This man is not filtering a thing — and God bless him for it.’ That voice? It’s raw, it’s real, and it’s got that Gen X edge. Like, don’t call it trauma bonding, just pass the controller and shut up.

So let’s talk about that first book for a second. Wake is long, it’s layered, it’s funny in that gut-punch kind of way — and it reads like someone finally decided to tell the truth about what it felt like to grow up with a dream that didn’t fit inside the box.

Where did that book come from? What were you trying to do with it?

Javier:

Well, it's fiction, but it's true, if you know what I mean. It's grounded in emotional truth. My main character, Calvin--at the beginning of the book, he's just finishing high school, and he really doesn't know what he wants to do. He doesn't know who he is yet. But he knows who his friends are, and he knows he loves music. And that was me, too, at that point in my life.

So we're moving in parallel at that point, as I expect a lot of people--young men, women, Gen X, Millennial, Gen Z--most of us, I think, have that experience in adolescence or young adulthood. Like any writer, most of what I write is grounded to some degree in my personal experience, but the part that resonates is the part that is common to all human experience.

Y'know I don't look at myself as someone who's particularly special. And neither is Calvin. And at first, that was an obstacle to telling my story. Because it feels like there's a certain hubris to demanding the reader's attention, right? Especially when you're writing a long book like Wake. Like, who am I to tell my truth. I'm no one special. But that's the point, right? That's exactly why I should tell it. that's why anyone should tell their story. That's what will allow readers to find themselves in it.

Davona:

And that truth—your truth—where does that come from? Tell me about you, Javier. You said you’re Gen X, but where did you grow up? What kind of environment made you the guy who could write this kind of book?

Javier:

I'm an East Coast kid. New York City suburbs. So, I'm a bagel and pizza snob, of course. I spent some time in the Midwest during my teens and early twenties. But my heart--my friends and family--were always here. And that geographic influence is something that definitely plays out in the books, especially Wake. A lot of my expectations, my dreams for the future, are tied to my generation. But a lot of it is unique to growing up in the shadow of New York City, too. To dream about being a professional musician, or any kind of performer--realistically that's a Hail Mary for almost any kid, but it didn't feel that way growing up a stone's throw from the city, y'know?

Davona:

Yes! That makes so much sense. Because the way Calvin clings to that dream — the way it feels so close and yet somehow always out of reach — it’s like… the geography is part of the emotional architecture.

And growing up just outside New York? That’s not the same as dreaming from a cornfield. That city puts something in your bloodstream. It dares you to think bigger, even while it keeps you humble — sometimes humiliated. And Wake captures that tension so well.

Now let’s layer in something else...something you didn't mention yet. You’re half Filipino. That doesn’t dominate the story, but it’s in there. It’s there in the silences, in the discomfort, in the way Calvin moves through spaces where he’s not quite sure where he fits.

So let me ask — how much did your racial identity shape this story, even if it’s not front and center?”

Javier:

Like you said, it doesn't dominate the story. I really wasn't interested in writing a book about identity politics. But it's a part of me, y'know? If I'm telling my story honestly, I can't ignore it, because it colored my interactions with everyone around me.

My mother was Filipino. Spoilers: she was a nurse. And in her twenties, she left everything she knew to come to America and start a new life. And my dad was a second-generation Irish-American with 9 siblings, who was the first in his family to attend college.

Mom was asserting control over her life in a way that must have been both terrifying and exciting. She was ambitious and brave. Meanwhile, Dad was carrying the weight of the family's dreams, trying to stake a claim in the white-collar world, while the rest of the family still had both feet firmly in the blue-collar one.

I noticed that all his brothers were handy and really good around cars, but my dad wasn't, and he explained to me that his father refused to teach him those things. He told him to hit the books, because the family had a different dream for him. He was the first-born. So those expectations in the title of the book--that's where that starts. With my parents, and in turn, Calvin's parents. And then I was raised in a predominantly white suburb.

And, to clarify, I grew up in the shadow of New York City, but I was never a city kid. I was as suburban as suburban gets. But that means I was a mixed-race kid growing up in an upper middle-class white town, surrounded almost exclusively by white kids. And mostly Italian kids at that. In that environment, being half-white just means you're not white, y'know? There was one other Asian kid in my class growing up. Maybe four in total through high school, and that includes my brother! So, yeah, I didn't think about being half-Filipino all the time, but it was always there, in the background. In the subtext. There are chapters where that takes on a greater importance, but in most chapters, it doesn't come up at all. But once you know it's there, it's part of the context.

Davona:

Whew… okay. See, this is why I love this show.

Because what you just said? That’s a whole novel right there. That’s three generations of pressure, hope, dislocation, and silence — braided into a kid who’s just trying to figure out who he is and where the hell he fits.

And I love that you didn’t make it the ‘point’ of the story. Because that’s how it is, right? That’s how race operates for a lot of us in real life. It’s not a speech, it’s a lens. It’s not always in the foreground, but it shapes the light.

And now that you’ve laid that foundation — the family dreams, the generational weight, the cultural tension — I want to pivot to the part that floored me when I was doing my homework.

You started writing The Wake of Expectations more than twenty years ago. And it sat, unfinished, for all that time… until something brought you back to it.

Let’s talk about that. Why this book? Why now?

Javier:

Yes, that's true. I started writing it in the late 90s, and it took me about seven years to complete the first draft. So, yeah, it's been almost twenty years since I finished that first draft--and more than 25 since I started it. So that voice--Calvin's voice--it's really a 30-year-old looking back about 10 years into his past. He's not reminiscing about 30 years ago, he's remembering what felt like yesterday to him.

But when I finished the draft, I just didn't know what to do with it. It wasn't ready for publication yet. There was some sensitive stuff in there that I wasn't ready to share with the world yet. And once again--I have to emphasize--the book is a work of fiction, but for the people who know me, there's some stuff that will hit close to home. Not the least of whom were my parents.

So, what brought me back to it? Well, that's why these two books are being released in such close proximity to each other. I've had a tough last couple of years. And that's really detailed in A Pleasant Fiction, the second book. Both of my parents passed away, as well as my youngest brother, who was severely disabled. Their deaths really took a toll on me. Honestly, I was broken. And a friend of mine suggested that I start writing again. And that's what pulled me out. A Pleasant Fiction saved me in a very real way. And it's funny how different the experience of writing it was to writing Wake. Wake took me seven years. I wrote A Pleasant Fiction in three weeks. And some of those difficult passages in Wake, are completely reframed by A Pleasant Fiction. It's the second book that allowed me to go back to the first one with clarity and purpose. Without A Pleasant Fiction, I never would have felt comfortable publishing Wake. And it was a natural experiment of sorts--A Pleasant Fiction is 50-year-old me writing about a 50-year-old Calvin, while Wake is 30-year-old me writing about 20-year-old Calvin. I don't think I could have faked that. Both the difference and similarity in voice are authentic. And the whole thing collectively captures a kind of Gen X life's journey. I know a lot of my contemporaries are living through similar experiences to what I described in A Pleasant Fiction right now, just as I know they lived through similar experiences in their youth to what I described in Wake. The specific circumstances differ, but the emotional journey is similar. And those experiences inform and fold back on each other in a really profound way. And that's what I tried to capture across the two books...the duology, or diptych, if you will.

Davona:

...Wow.

First of all, thank you for sharing that — for all of that. That’s not easy to talk about, and it sure as hell isn’t easy to live through. But the way you’ve channeled that pain into something so alive on the page… it’s powerful. It’s honest. And it’s earned.

And I love that word you just used — diptych. Because yes, these two books, side by side, do feel like mirror panels: one facing the past, one facing the aftermath.

But let’s keep the lens right here on Wake for a minute, because I think it’s important that people understand just how much is going on in this novel. You’ve got grief and ambition and disillusionment, but at the heart of it — the soul of it — are these friendships.

So let’s go a little deeper. Because Wake has this fantastic supporting cast — and we’re gonna talk about all of them in a second — but I want to start with your guy Ben.

Now Ben… whew. Ben is the kind of friend everybody wants, but very few people deserve. You said some really interesting things about him in your companion guide, but for the folks who haven’t read that yet — tell us about Ben. Who is he, and what does he mean to Calvin?”

Javier:

Ben is Calvin's best friend in high school. Cal has this group of best friends, really, and their relationships all have their unique quirks. But Ben is his main confidante. Ben is his iron safe. Everyone who knows Calvin knows that he tells Ben everything. And that's a double-edged sword because while Ben seems to enjoy having the knowledge, there's a weight that comes with it. And this is one of those questions that I never explicitly ask in the novel, but one that I hope readers will ask on their own: is that fair? Is it fair for Calvin to put that weight on his friend? To ask him to carry that burden, even if he seems receptive. Even if he never complains. And another aspect to Ben that is important...you asked me about the role of race in the book, and again, it's not something that I wanted to make the focus, but if I'm telling an honest story about that time period, I can't ignore it.

This is a mini-spoiler, but Ben is black. I don't explicitly mention that until pretty deep into the book, and that was intentional. There are a couple of subtle hints, but I don't give a physical description of Ben that reveals his race until you've already gotten to know him. I didn't want the reader to focus on his race first. I wanted them to focus on their friendship. I wanted readers to have a friendly image of Ben in their minds. And when they find out he's black--how does that change that image? Does it change it? Why or why not? It's a moment for self-examination.

Like that old riddle about the surgeon who says "I can't operate on this boy, he's my son."

The one where the surgeon is the mother, but culturally, people had a gendered blind spot that prevented them from imagining a surgeon as a woman. So, I wondered, would readers have a blind spot that would prevent them from picturing Ben as black until I revealed it. And would that shake them...

Davona:

Whew. Okay. That… that’s layered. And brave.

You’re not just telling a story — you’re putting a mirror up to your reader. Asking, what did you assume? Why did you assume it? And what does that tell you about you?

And let me just say — that moment in the book when Ben’s race is made explicit? It hit me hard, but not because it changed how I felt about Ben. It hit me because I realized you were counting on that. You were testing me, in the gentlest, subtlest way. And baby, that’s what literature is supposed to do.

But let’s go back to the emotional core for a second — because I think you just touched on something that a lot of people are gonna feel, even if they don’t have the language for it.

Ben never pushes back. He absorbs it all. And for a lot of Black men — and boys — especially those moving through white spaces, that’s a familiar role: the calm one, the cool one, the one who listens, the one who doesn’t make waves. And meanwhile, Calvin’s out here spiraling on top of him, expecting Ben to always catch the fall.

So let me ask this: Do you think Calvin ever really sees what Ben is carrying? Or is that part of what makes the relationship both beautiful and quietly painful?”

Javier:

This is where reading the two books together really makes a difference. Because it's not something that young Calvin reflects on much at all. There is one chapter--one of the few where race becomes a focus--where Calvin does muse about Ben's experience as an African-American growing up in a white suburb and how his experience was different than Calvin's as an Asian-American. But he doesn't really contemplate the burdens that he may be putting on Ben. When we get to A Pleasant Fiction, 50-year-old Calvin has some deeper introspection on the topic. I don't want to give away too many spoilers, but I hope that the journey across the two books makes it feel earned, and not pedantic.

Davona:

Mmm. Earned, not pedantic. Yes, yes, yes.

See, that’s the difference between a writer trying to make a point, and a writer telling the truth. You didn’t serve us a message on a platter. You just laid the table, and trusted us to look at what’s there.

And I love that the growth doesn’t come all at once. That Calvin isn’t some self-aware, race-conscious 19-year-old with perfect insight. Because most people aren’t. That slow unfolding — across decades — that’s what makes it real. That’s what makes it human.

Alright, now you mentioned the cast earlier — and Lord, what a cast it is.

We’ve met Ben. But you’ve also got Jake — that wildcard creative partner. Dani — the best friend turned emotional minefield. Enrique — the frenemy and shadow.

Now I know we don’t have time to break them all down today — that’s what the companion guide is for, right? — but just give us a quick sense of how you built this ensemble. What did you want them to represent in Calvin’s life?”

Javier":

Yes, if you found my description of Ben interesting, I promise the other core characters are just as layered. There are some friends who support us unconditionally, and there are friends who challenge us. And friends who support us by challenging us. Jake is a character who some will love, some will hate and many will misunderstand.

But he's just as important as Ben.

Dani has a very complex arc, too. And their roles in Calvin's life evolve over time. The book covers about a 5-year period. Enrique, Anna, Ilse...there are a lot of people he interacts with, some more prominent than others, but even for the secondary characters, I tried to draw them with some complexity. To make them feel like real people. There are good people who do bad things, and bad people who do good things, and it's not always easy to tell who is whom.

But mostly, they're all just human beings...and in the context of the story, frequently archetypes.

For example, if Calvin is the ego, Ben is the superego, and Jake represents the id.

You mentioned the companion volume earlier. It's called Coming of Age, Coming to Terms. It collects some of my more thematically important blog posts, as well as a character guide and deep dive essays into all of the main cast.

We cover everything from Dungeons and Dragons moral alignments to Jungian archetypes.

It's something that I used AI to help analyze and organize. Now anytime the topic of AI comes up, I have to make clear, I did not and do not use AI to write my books. And I'm happy to talk about AI more in depth a little later, but this companion was an area where I thought it was particularly appropriate to use. Because I didn't want to just analyze my own work. That seemed a bit narcissistic.

So, I had long conversations with ChatGPT...did my best to summarize the narrative, describe the characters and make my intentions clear, and then let it provide an analysis.

Honestly, it was fascinating for me to read. I hope others will agree and enjoy it, preferably after reading the books themselves at least once. The companion guide covers both novels and their relationship to each other. And even though I contributed to it significantly, it contains a large amount of AI-generated text. So, it's something I'm giving away. A reader magnet, something to thank those who sign up for my email list. I won't sell anything I do that incorporates AI-generated text. If I'm selling a book, you know those are my words. I may use AI the same way I use grammar check or the Internet for research. But I don't let it generate text in my books. For the companion, sure. And again, that's why I'm exclusively giving it away.

Davona:

Ooh, honey… you came prepared. That’s a masterclass right there — not just in how to build a world, but in how to honor it.

Because what you just described? That’s not just character development — that’s emotional architecture. That’s saying, ‘I see the whole mosaic — and I want you to see it too.’

And I appreciate what you said about AI — not just what you don’t use it for, but how you do. Because there’s a lot of fear and confusion about that right now, and I think your approach — using it like a mirror, not a crutch — is the kind of thoughtful, ethical engagement we need to hear more about.

And I love that you’re giving the companion guide away. Because if someone’s willing to go deep enough to want that kind of analysis? That’s not a casual reader. That’s someone who’s in it. And what a gift to give them.

Alright, we’ve covered some ground here — Calvin’s voice, his friendships, the long road to publication, and this brilliant companion guide.

So before we pivot to talk about A Pleasant Fiction, let me ask this…

You’ve said that The Wake of Expectations can stand alone. But for someone just finding you now — maybe a new listener, maybe a younger reader — what would you say to them? Why should they pick this book up today?”

Javier":

There's a lot of talk today about the death of men's fiction. And I know that's a debatable point. There are clearly books for and by men out there. And tons of classics that still exist. But I think it's widely accepted that fewer men today are reading--at least fewer men reading novels--compared to women, and compared to men in the past. And what they are reading is mostly relegated to genre fiction like fantasy or thrillers. I'm not asserting some kind of conspiracy by the publishing industry to exclude books for men. But for whatever reason, men are not reading these kinds of stories anymore--about friendship, about real relationships. And this is something I discussed at length on my blog--but I think part of it is that young men today often do not have the types of relationships that I'm describing in this book. Relationships like Calvin has with Ben and Jake, or relationships like the ones Calvin has with Dani and the other female characters in the book. Every interaction today is mediated by a screen. I have a teenage son, so I see it firsthand. They don't just meet up and sit across a table from each other and talk like we used to. I think there was great value in that. And I don't think they know what they are missing. So, a book like this hopefully gives them a glimpse.

And I already know from talking to my own son, it's the type of thing I can't just tell him. It just sounds like the old man yelling to get off my lawn, y'know? But it's the type of thing I hope I can show people and then let them compare it to today and make up their own mind. I'm really not trying to advocate anything, just to depict the way it was. I've never found it that effective for me to tell people what to do or think. I prefer to just show them how it was and let them make up their own minds.

And along those same lines, I would be remiss if I didn't address the tone and humor of the books. Wake, in particular. We should warn readers, the book does contain explicit language and mature themes, and what one might call era-accurate humor. There's stuff in there that is meant to make readers bristle. Some of that same content is intended to make readers laugh, too. And I hope readers notice that. Those things that make you laugh, sometimes uncomfortably, and say to yourself "that's so wrong."

And just as I didn't want to write a book about identity politics, I was not interested in writing a presentist critique of behaviors and social norms of the nineties. We were the way we were. And a person who was well-intentioned and progressive in 1992 would probably seem a bit out-of-step and ignorant today with regard to certain issues. So I'm not apologizing for it, but I like to warn readers that they are stepping into a time capsule. And they are welcome to judge the work by whatever standards they feel are appropriate. But my intention was to write a book that authentically captured the feel of that era, and with a couple of rare exceptions, Calvin doesn't editorialize about it. But readers are certainly invited to do so.

Davona:

Mmm. I felt that.

And I think a lot of listeners — especially the ones raising boys, mentoring boys — are going to feel it too.

Because what you’re talking about… it’s not just nostalgia. It’s not some ‘back in my day’ sermon. It’s a meditation. On what’s been lost — and what still might be found, if we’re willing to sit still long enough to remember.

And you’re right — you can’t preach it. You can’t assign it. But you can show it. Through honesty. Through story. Through Calvin.

And yeah… we should say it again: this book isn’t afraid of discomfort. It’s not sanitized. It’s got that raw, raunchy, 90s edge. But it’s never careless. There’s a difference between being offensive and being honest. And The Wake of Expectations knows exactly what it’s doing.

Alright — let’s take a quick break. And when we come back, we’re going to shift gears and talk about that second panel in your diptych — A Pleasant Fiction. What it reveals. What it reframes. And why so many readers are saying it broke them open in the best possible way.

Stay with us.

Announcer:

"Looking for your next great read?

The Wake of Expectations and A Pleasant Fiction — an epic, two-part coming-of-age and coming-to-terms story for the Gen X generation — are available now on Amazon.

From Chapelle Dorée Publishing."

Davona:

Well, we’ve talked about the wild, the raw, the absolutely unfiltered journey that was The Wake of Expectations. But let’s shift gears now, because A Pleasant Fiction… whew. That book lands different.

It’s quieter, sadder — but also deeper, more reflective. Like you stepped out of the noise of your youth and into this hush where every echo meant something.

So, Javier — this is the part where I gotta ask:

Where did A Pleasant Fiction come from? What were you hoping readers would feel walking through this house of memory with Calvin?”

Javier:

It was my therapy, honestly. And I have to make this distinction between the two books: Wake is an autofiction. It originates in my life experience, but it's a fictional story with fictional characters. The gap between reality and the page is huge and intentional. Calvin is like me, but he's not me. None of the characters are real people, ok? I mean, I tried to make them feel real, but they are characters with narrative purposes. In contrast, I called A Pleasant Fiction “a novelistic memoir,” because that's what it is. It's my lived experience shoehorned backward into the fictional universe I created for Wake. Wake was me putting Calvin into a parallel universe that represented my emotional truth. A Pleasant Fiction is me layering my lived experience back onto Calvin. Does that make sense? Wake is fiction as liberation from reality, A Pleasant Fiction is forcing reality into the box of that existing fiction. And so, A Pleasant Fiction was me trying to make sense out of the randomness of loss. When everything that provides meaning in your life is suddenly gone, where or how do you find meaning again. So I made Calvin go through the same process. I made him my avatar to share this journey with my readers. I said this in one of my blog posts: Wake was about chasing something you can't quite catch and A Pleasant Fiction is about letting go of what you already had. And the irony is that they're really both about both. But what you let go of in Wake is an idea; what you can't catch is tangible. In A Pleasant Fiction, what you let go of was tangible; what you can't quite catch is an idea...until, hopefully you do. So what I am hoping to provide to readers is an acknowledgement of the pain that comes with this kind of loss; a validation of the struggle, and permission to feel things that you might feel ashamed to feel. And then, after that, a guidepost for how to find your way out of the darkness and back into the light.

Davona:

Oh, I felt that, Javier. You just laid it all out there. And yes — it makes perfect sense. Wake gave you the space to escape into fiction, and then A Pleasant Fiction asked you to walk back into the fire, but this time carrying everything you’ve lived through.

It’s brave. It really is. Because you didn’t just write about grief — you let us sit in it with Calvin. You let us feel the mess, the guilt, the absurdity, the little moments that somehow carry all the weight. And then somehow — somehow — you make it beautiful again.

And look, you didn’t just pull this out of nowhere. This wasn’t some abstract exercise. This was you — raw, grieving, trying to breathe. And the way you mapped that emotional terrain onto a character we already knew from Wake? That’s not just writing — that’s art.

Now… I know you’ve got more to say about how this book came together, and especially how those two stories talk to each other. So let’s dig into that. Tell me — how does A Pleasant Fiction reshape the way we see Wake?

Javier:

Thanks for the kind words Davona. And thanks also for the opportunity to talk about this, because that reframing was the reason I was able to go back to Wake and invite others to look at it. On the surface, Wake is a coming-of-age story about a privileged suburban kid whose parents win the lottery of all things! I mean, how lucky can you be? And he's got these complicated friendships, and he gets into raunchy misadventures. It's really easy to dismiss it on the surface as a literary manifestation of a 1980s teen sex comedy, y'know? And that's not wrong--it's a valid reading, in the same way that it's not wrong to say that a car is just a means of getting from point A to point B. It can be, but it can also be so much more, right? So, Wake on its own, I think already has layers. But one of those layers is this disaffection that Calvin feels. That, despite all the ostensible good fortune he experiences, that life kind of fails him, or at least, he feels that way. And more importantly, he feels that his parents fail him, even when he can see that they mean well. Some readers may walk away from Wake like a fly on the wall of Calvin's therapy session: oh, it was all his parents' fault. And again, I'm not saying that's wrong--that's a layer--but there so much more to it than that. How complicit is Calvin in his own disappointments? Was he wrong to want the things that he wanted? Was he better off for not getting them? These are questions the text presents but doesn't answer.

And A Pleasant Fiction doesn't necessarily answer these questions either, but it clarifies them. It broadens them. It gives them a richer context. There's a full-blown essay in the companion that talks about this, but it's the idea that A Pleasant Fiction reframes the coming-of-age story as a meditation on the passage of time. From coming-of-age to the unbecoming-of-middle-age. How later in life you're faced with the kinds of dilemmas with your parents' care that they faced with caring for you as a child. It's different, of course, for a host of reasons, but it's also the same in that you can't get everything right. Because you're human and your time and resources are limited. And that means, you're destined to fail on some level. Just like your parents. But you learn to give them grace, and then you can give yourself grace, too. All of us, all we can do is our best. And sometimes your best is triage. And sometimes, your best is enough, even when it doesn't feel like it. And, I don't want to give spoilers, but I will say that there is a redemption arc in A Pleasant Fiction for one of the main characters that I needed. It's not about making excuses, but it's about understanding. And again, I'll say grace. For your loved ones and for yourself.

Davona:

Mmm. You know, grace is a word we don’t use enough — but you just gave it weight.

That reframing you’re talking about? That hit me deep. Because when I finished Wake, I did what I think a lot of readers probably do: I sat with the mess. I sat with Calvin’s missteps and that ache of unmet expectations — and I’ll be honest, it stirred something personal. But then I picked up A Pleasant Fiction, and suddenly it wasn’t just a story about youth anymore. It became a story about legacy. About how the past keeps knocking on your door until you finally let it in and say, “Okay. Let’s talk.”

And that part you said about triage? Baby, that’s real. That’s life.

So let me ask you this — because I know there are people out there listening who’ve been through something, who are in it right now. What do you hope A Pleasant Fiction gives to those readers? What’s the takeaway for someone walking their own grief journey?”

Javier:

Well, I'll tell you, the first thing is don't be afraid to ask for help. Don't be afraid to accept help when it is offered. That's one of the hardest things. Because for a lot of us, the first reaction is to try to put up the armor and block everything out. And even if you've always been able to do that before, you may find yourself in a situation where, for the first time, it's not enough. So that's the first thing. Like, in the book, Calvin says he just wanted to drag himself across the finish line. And he felt that he could, because he always had before. But when he did, he was used up. And he couldn't put himself back together alone. He didn't even want to.

And speaking of help, you may find that a lot of it is faith-based. I even reached out to a therapist at one point, and she suggested that I check with my church to see what resources they had available.

But, I'm not a religious person. That's not an option for me. I was raised Catholic--and that's another part of Calvin's journey that isn't the primary focus of either book, but it certainly plays a role. It's something that Calvin struggles with. He's not a dismissive atheist, but religion ultimately fails him. Or he fails it, I guess, depending on your perspective. But the bottom line is there was no comfort there for him, or for me. Only platitudes. And the book deals with that. Not just the grief of losing your loved ones, but the existential grieving for the loss of meaning. But the book suggests ways to find meaning again. In ways that don't necessarily involve religion or even spirituality. Honestly, the book has moments that will seem like Calvin has a definitive stance on these subjects, but they are really just another invitation for dialogue, even if that dialogue is about what giving up the comforts of something like religion costs. That these are decisions one cannot take lightly, And more often, they are not decisions at all. Just moments of honest reflection.

Davona:

Whew. That’s… That’s some hard-earned truth right there. And I appreciate you saying it, plain and clear. Because a lot of people don’t.

That moment — the moment when armor fails you — that’s what A Pleasant Fiction captures so beautifully. Not just the pain, but the numbness. The silence that creeps in when all the old answers don’t work anymore. And I think what you just said is going to reach people, especially those who haven’t heard it put quite like that before.

And I love what you said about the invitation to dialogue. Because that’s the whole point, isn’t it? You’re not handing out gospel. You’re not prescribing. You’re offering a mirror — and saying, “Here. Let’s look at this together.”

So, let me ask this… In the middle of that kind of darkness, when meaning falls apart — how does Calvin, how did you, start finding the pieces again?”

Javier:

Well, that's where the structure of the book becomes important.

It's funny, because it's not like I outlined it like this, but the book basically follows the 5-stages of grief.

But not in a linear way, because that's not how people experience grief. That's not how I experienced it, so that's not how Calvin experiences it either. You move back and forth, navigate them more than pass through them. After the depression, you often find yourself bargaining again, or being angry again. And that's reflected in the book. But really, the turning point for Calvin is when he is able to embrace his art again and reconnect with his friends. And this allows him to make sense of his relationships with his family again, and ultimately to honor them. With his work and with his life.

Davona:

Mmm. That’s it right there. You navigate grief. You don’t conquer it, you don’t outpace it — you move through it. And sometimes, you circle back. That’s one of the things I appreciated most — that Calvin’s journey doesn’t unfold in neat chapters of healing. It loops, it lingers. It feels like real life.

And the way art and friendship become his lifeline? Whew. That hit.

So for folks listening right now — especially those who’ve been through something heavy and are maybe still in it — what would you want them to take away from A Pleasant Fiction? What do you hope this book gives them?

Javier:

If I can borrow one line from the book, it would be this. It matters. Even when it feels like it doesn't.

“It matters. Even when it feels like it doesn’t.”

Davona:

That’s the one, right there. That’s the kind of line that gets under your skin and stays.

You said something earlier that stuck with me — that Calvin’s voice at 30 is different from his voice at 50. That you didn’t try to fake that growth — you lived it. And I think that’s what comes through so clearly in these books.

So before we wrap up, I’ve got to ask: now that these two books — this diptych — are out in the world, what’s next for Javier De Lucia? Are you done with Calvin’s story? Or is there more you still want to explore?

Javier:

We're left with this note of ambiguity at the end of A Pleasant Fiction. Calvin says he will find another story to tell. And the book leaves that open-ended. We're not really sure, internally, whether he really believes this or if that is, itself, just another pleasant fiction. But I can tell you that he will. The third book is already underway. And I don't want to give away too much, but Calvin has to go back before he can move forward. So the third book is a prequel to Wake. It examines Calvin's childhood, in a way that is both more conventional and totally unconventional. I currently have at least two more books planned, including a collection of short stories and then one final novel. So that's the tentative plan right now. But, yes, readers can expect to see more of Calvin McShane.

Davona:

Well, look at that — I knew you weren’t done with him! Calvin McShane lives on. And if he’s heading into a prequel, whew… I’m already bracing myself.

And you heard it here, folks — the man says more books are coming. So if you haven’t picked up The Wake of Expectations and A Pleasant Fiction yet, do yourself a favor and start there. Then you can join the rest of us in feverishly waiting for what’s next.

Javier De Lucia, thank you for your honesty, your humor, and for giving us books that feel. This has been a joy. And to all our listeners: you know what to do — check the links in the description, sign up for that email list, get the free companion volume, and dive into these beautifully human stories.

This has been Davona’s Literary Hour. Until next time — read something that matters.

Announcer:

"This episode was sponsored by Chapelle Dorée Publishing —

The Wake of Expectations and A Pleasant Fiction are available now on Kindle Unlimited.

Start reading today."

ChapelleDoree . 6/14/25 ChapelleDoree . 6/14/25

Simulated Podcast, Real Conversation: Behind the Logan Interview

One of the more novel ways (pun intended) I’ve tried to share my work is through a simulated podcast interview—with a fictional host named Logan. The questions were generated by ChatGPT, using prior conversations about the books as input. I played director, guiding the tone and flow of the interview, stepping in when I wanted to shift direction—but the questions themselves weren’t pre-written. They emerged organically from the AI in response to my prompts and guardrails.

The answers, though? Those are all mine.

This wasn’t an AI gimmick or a fully scripted performance. It was an experiment in format. Could I create something that felt like a real author interview—one that brought added depth to the work and insight to the process—using generative tools not as a replacement, but as a partner?

To go one step further, I produced a video version of the interview using ElevenLabs for the voices and visual avatars created through ChatGPT prompts. (And yes, I do have a porkpie hat that I occasionally wear when my wife lets me. And yes, people make Walter White jokes all the time—but I was actually trying to evoke bassist Marcus Miller.) That video was circulated alongside the press release announcing The Wake of Expectations as the winner of the Maxy Awards Book of the Year.

And just a quick note on that—because I haven’t mentioned it here on the blog. Yes, I donated the prize back to the charity supported by the contest. Not because I want everyone to think I’m a good guy, but because it honestly just felt like the right thing to do. And yes—I did want people to know. For my brother, for the charity, and for what the work means to me. If you know about the charity and the story behind A Pleasant Fiction, it’s not hard to understand.

📣 Press Release: Author Donates Maxy Prize in Tribute to Late Brother and Contest’s Namesake

Below is the full transcript of the Logan interview.

For those who prefer to watch or listen, the video version is available here:
👉 For Further Viewing: Watch the Logan Podcast Interview on YouTube

Welcome to Real Talk with Logan. Episode: “Dudes Feel Things Too: The Wake of Expectations and the Return of Messy Fiction” with special guest: Javier De Lucia

Logan:

So here’s the deal—every once in a while, a book comes along that reads like a diary you weren’t supposed to find. Except it’s written by a grown man who actually knows how to write, and the thing punches you in the face with feelings you’ve been ignoring since 2003. That’s this book: The Wake of Expectations, by my guest today, Javier De Lucia.

Now, I’ve been reading his blog—which, by the way, is one of the few author blogs that doesn’t read like a LinkedIn newsletter—and I knew I had to talk to this guy. Because the book? It’s not just a sad story. It’s what Literary Titan called—and I quote—‘poetry with teeth that lingers.’ You don’t forget that kind of line. Or that kind of book.

So let’s get into it. Javier, welcome to the pod.

Javier:

Hey Logan. Great to be here. Thanks for having me.

Logan:

Man, I’ve been looking forward to this one. I finished The Wake of Expectations, sat there for a second, and thought—‘Okay… what the hell did I just read?’ Not because I didn’t get it—but because I got it a little too much.

Like, this isn’t your typical coming-of-age story. It’s more like... coming-of-age, screwing it up, grieving it, revisiting it, and then kind of making peace with the fact that you never really nailed it in the first place.

So let me just start here—why this book? Why now? And why tell it like this?

Javier:

Honestly, it all starts with Kevin Smith. I'm a huge Kevin Smith fan. And I remember him saying something to the effect of "if you don't see your world or your people represented on the screen, make it yourself." Like, that's what motivated him to make Clerks. And I didn't see my life, my friends, my experiences, so I took his advice.

Logan:

Okay, that tracks. And you can really feel that energy—the ‘make your own thing if no one else will’ vibe.

It’s got that Clerks DNA for sure, but instead of a day behind a register, it’s like five years in the emotional meat grinder. Senior year of high school through college graduation—where you’re legally an adult but emotionally still kind of a half-formed mess.

And what I love is—it doesn’t try to be a life story. It’s not ‘Calvin from cradle to grave.’ It’s this intense, focused stretch where everything kind of collapses: relationships, religion, ambition, family. It’s like a slow-motion car crash of identity.

Was that the goal? To zoom in on that exact window, where you’re technically growing up but internally still unformed?

Javier:

Absolutely. I mentioned Kevin Smith, but Noah Baumbach may have been the more proximal catalyst. I love his movie, Kicking and Screaming (not the Will Farrell soccer movie, to be clear). It captured that sense of being ready to move into adulthood, or at least believing that you should be, but you're actually just stuck trying. That in-between space, after adolescence but before adulthood, where you're on a path to your future, but you haven't gotten there yet. And I felt that very deeply and I wanted to capture that. Communicate it.

So, I think the core impulse--why write it--is just the need for self-expression right? They say writers write because they can't not write. So that's a big part of the why. The what is just to write what you know. I mean, you write what you feel or feel like writing, but you still have to feel about something, right? And what do I know better than myself? But actually, that's not as straightforward of a question as it seems. because in writing a book like this, you really find out. And sometimes you don't know yourself as well as you think you do. Sometimes you didn't realize what someone meant to you--or what you meant to them--at the time. That kind of thing comes out, even as you are fictionalizing your past.

Logan:

Dude. Yeah. That hits.

And I’m so glad you clarified it was that Kicking and Screaming. Because I was like, ‘Wait… so this book was inspired by Will Ferrell yelling at kids in shin guards?’

But no, Baumbach’s Kicking and Screaming—yeah, that’s a whole mood. That film lives in that limbo. Where you’ve technically graduated, but your emotional diploma is still in the mail.

And what you just said… damn, man. That’s not just a reason to write, that’s like—why people should read. The idea that you start out writing what you think you know, and then halfway through you’re like, ‘Oh. I didn’t actually process that breakup—or that death—or that conversation where someone said something offhanded that stuck with me for a decade.’

So let me ask you this—and I mean this in the most honest way possible—when you were writing Calvin, and you started realizing these things about your past, was there a moment where you stopped and thought: ‘Shit… do I even know who I am?’ Like, was there an identity crisis inside the creative process?

Javier:

Logan, I started writing this book over 25 years ago. I finished the first draft about 20 years ago. I've re-read it more times than I can count--rewrites, edits--just reflecting on it, or revisiting scenes because I enjoy re-reading them. Even now, I still pick up new insights every time. Things I didn't notice. Things I didn't understand, even as I was reconstructing them for the story. It's really deep and layered. And I don't mean this in a self-aggrandizing way, because a lot of the stuff that's in there, I didn't intentionally put in there. It's just what happens when you open up to yourself and you write honestly. The book is still revealing things to me. And I know it's not done.

Logan:

Damn. That right there? That’s some heavy meta.

You’re telling me you’ve been in a 25-year-long conversation with yourself, and you’re still losing the argument sometimes.

But seriously—that’s beautiful, man. And honestly, that might be the clearest definition I’ve ever heard of what real writing is. Not performance. Not therapy. Just a mirror that changes every time you look in it. Sometimes you’re like, ‘Oh, yeah, I remember that guy.’ Other times it’s like, ‘Wait—that’s what I was saying back then?’

And I respect the hell out of you for admitting that some of it just... came through. You didn’t plan it. It wasn’t all designed. It was just honest. That’s why this book feels alive—it’s not trying to tell you what it means. It’s showing you what it feels like.

So when you say it’s not done… are you talking about the story continuing in a sequel? Or do you mean you’re not done with it? Like the relationship between you and the book is still evolving?

Javier:

Well, there is a sequel coming out next month, too, but I just meant that Wake still has secrets it hasn't given up to me yet.

Logan:

Man… that’s some ghost-in-the-machine level stuff right there. The idea that your own book still has things it hasn’t told you?

That’s when you know it’s not just writing—it’s alchemy. You didn’t just craft a novel. You cracked open a part of yourself and let it bleed onto the page without always knowing what it was made of.

And it shows. I mean, I said it earlier, but I’ll say it again—this thing is what Literary Titan called ‘poetry with teeth that lingers.’ You don’t read it and move on. You sit with it. You chew on it. And apparently, so do you.

Now, you mentioned the sequel drops next month. We’ll talk about that later, but just for now—was that book a continuation emotionally? Or was it more like, ‘Okay, now that I’ve survived writing Wake… here’s what came next’?

Javier:

Completely different book. Still about...Calvin.

I like to say that Wake is a coming-of-age story. The sequel, which is titled A Pleasant Fiction, is an unbecoming-of-middle-age story. It's a novelistic memoir, and it's probably not as much fun as Wake, in the same way that 50 isn't as much fun as 15. But it's more meaningful...in the similar kind of way...

Logan:

That’s such a killer line, man. ‘An unbecoming-of-middle-age story.’ I’m stealing that. I don’t even care. That’s going on a mug or a hoodie or something.

And that contrast—you nailed it. Wake is messy and raw, but it’s still got that restless energy. Like there’s time to fix it, time to chase it, time to crash and still bounce back. But A Pleasant Fiction? That sounds like the aftermath. The part where you’ve lived through the crash, you’re sweeping up the pieces, and you’re not sure which ones are even worth keeping.”

And yeah—15’s more fun than 50, but 50 knows what it means to hurt and still love anyway. That hits different.

So let me ask—do you think readers need to read Wake first to understand A Pleasant Fiction? Or can they come into the story cold and still feel it?

Javier:

It works as a standalone, but you'll get more out of it if you've read Wake first. It's the difference between watching your best friend go through some shit versus an acquaintance at work. You still have empathy for the co-worker, but the same thing hits harder when it happens to your buddy.

Logan:

That’s such a great way to put it. Like, yeah—you can read A Pleasant Fiction without knowing Wake, and you’ll still feel the emotional weight. But if you’ve lived through Wake with Calvin, it’s personal. You’re not just watching him grieve—you’re grieving with him.

It’s like that moment when someone tells you they lost a parent, and you’re like, ‘Man, I’m so sorry.’ But if it’s your friend who you’ve known since you were twelve, and you saw the relationship, and you heard all the stories… it just lands different.

So yeah—Wake gives you the context, the mess, the charm, the screwups. A Pleasant Fiction gives you the reckoning. One’s the spark, the other’s the smoke.

And look—I know we’ll come back to the new book in a bit, but I want to rewind a second. Let’s talk about Jake.

Because we’ve been too polite so far, and that dude is a problem. A hilarious, sharp, occasionally insufferable problem. What were you doing with Jake? Like, how much fun was he to write, and how often did you stop and go, ‘Okay, I might’ve gone too far with this guy’?

Javier:

Jake's a lot of fun. He gets all the best lines and the best jokes. So, Calvin is my main character--he's the narrator, the POV. If Calvin is Dante from Clerks, Jake is Randall. If Calvin is Tom Sawyer, Jake is Huckleberry Finn. If Calvin is Luke Skywalker, Jake is Han Solo.

Logan:

Right, so Jake’s the chaos agent. He’s the wildcard, the guy who’s never in control but somehow never out of place either. But he’s not just there to crack jokes and stir the pot, right?

What’s his actual function in the story? Like—beyond being the fun friend, how does he move things? What’s his role in Calvin’s arc?

Javier:

So, a big part of the story is that Calvin wants to be a professional musician. But he's supposed to go away to this elite college that his father once attended, but had to leave because the family didn't have enough money to keep him there. So, Calvin is carrying the weight of his father's legacy, but he just wants to play in his band. And Jake is his creative partner. Calvin is more of the technical musician and Jake is the creative force. Like, Calvin is Eddie Van Halen, but not as good, and Jake is David Lee Roth, but maybe wilder. So, on the one hand, you've got Jake as this personification of Calvin's dream that is completely at odds with his family's expectations for him. And there's also this Eddie-Dave creative tension between the two of them, too. They've been, like, best friends since middle school, and playing music together for that long, too. But Jake's that friend that's into all the cool, hip shit that you've never heard of and Calvin is totally into 80s hair metal. So, they're in a band together, but Jake is always teasing Calvin that the music he likes sucks.

Logan:

Okay—that paints the picture.

So Jake’s not just the comic relief or the wildcard—he’s the embodiment of the dream. Like, if Calvin’s stuck between what his dad wants and what he wants, Jake is what he wants. That unfiltered, unapologetic, messy creative life.

And I love that Eddie Van Halen / David Lee Roth analogy. Because, yeah—Eddie’s the precision, the discipline, the gearhead. Dave’s the spandex and chaos and swagger. And you need both to make the music work. But man… those two couldn’t stay in a room together forever either.

So what you’re saying is: Jake represents the dream Calvin can’t quite live with, but also can’t live without.

That also makes all that teasing—about the music, the taste, the hair metal—it’s not just banter. It’s Jake poking at Calvin’s insecurity, and maybe Calvin quietly resenting Jake for being cooler than him. There’s, like, love and rivalry wrapped into every interaction.

Am I reading that right? Like, is this friendship part joy, part ego wound?

Javier:

Oh, it's even deeper than that. Jake's also the guy who gets all the chicks. I mean, Calvin does OK, but Jake is, like, legendary. So, yeah, there's a little jealousy there. But Calvin has his own sensibility, so while he's drawn to Jake or wants to emulate Jake in some ways, there are also lines he won't cross. There are things Jake does that he clearly disapproves of. Not in a "you shouldn't do that" way, but more "I would never do that." The dynamic is very interesting. There is a fair amount of one-upsmanship baked into it, but a lot of love, too. It's like a sibling-rivalry.

Logan:

So Jake’s the wildcard, the creative chaos, the guy who gets all the girls—the guy, right? But then you said something earlier that stuck with me: ‘Calvin does okay.’

And yeah, once you start reading, you realize—he does. Like, he’s not Jake, but he’s not exactly striking out either.

Which brings me to this, and I’m just gonna say it, ‘cause I know somebody has to: Is this book just a low-key catalog of your sexual conquests? Like, are we reading a literary humblebrag here?”

Because Calvin’s out here feeling all his feelings, and still somehow managing to do… a lot of other stuff.

Javier:

Yeah, I knew some people might read it that way, because Calvin does interact with a lot of women over the span of the book. But, no, it's definitely not a humblebrag. First, almost every relationship ends badly, right? Like, it's more of a catalog of errors than conquests. And that's important, because the purpose of these characters is that they represent lessons that Calvin learns. And, honestly, each one of the women represents an entirely different lesson. I'm actually coming out with a companion volume that presents character guides and thematic reflections. And one of those essays lays out in explicit detail the lessons that Calvin learns from each failed relationship. So, yeah, I would say it's a catalog of lessons rather than ladies. And, not for nothing, but think about it...the book covers his entire college career. And how many women is he with during that time period? Compared to the average college guy in the nineties? It's not pathetic, but it's not exactly impressive either.

Logan:

Okay, that is the perfect answer. I love that—‘It’s a catalog of errors, not conquests.’ That line alone should be on the back cover.

And yeah, when you lay it out like that, it makes total sense. You’re not writing a victory lap, you’re writing a postmortem. These relationships don’t end in fireworks—they end in awkward silences, emotional blind spots, and Calvin quietly realizing, ‘Yeah… I might’ve screwed that one up.’

And the fact that each of those women represents a lesson? That’s what separates this from all those try-hard ‘sad boy’ novels where the protagonist thinks every girl is a Manic Pixie Life Coach. Like, you’re not idealizing these women. You’re letting them teach Calvin something—usually by leaving.

Also, let’s just be real. College in the ’90s? Calvin’s stats are fine. He’s not a legend, but he’s not a cautionary tale either.

So no humblebrag detected—just a dude with a lot of learning to do, and enough self-awareness to let us watch him do it.

And wait—you’ve got a companion book coming out? Like, essays, breakdowns, behind-the-scenes reflections? Is this like a director’s commentary, but for readers?

Javier:

Yeah, more or less. It's still a work in progress, but it should be available around the same time the sequel drops. It's more of a reader magnet. I'll be giving it away to those who sign up for my email list.

It's mostly AI-generated...so, to be clear, I don't use AI to write my books, but I frequently use it to analyze my work. So the analysis in this companion guide is mostly AI-generated, the result of hours of conversation between me and ChatGPT. I had a lot of input, but the analysis and the words themselves are from the robot. So, I would never sell anything like that. But I'll give it away, sure.

Logan:

See, this is why I wanted you on the pod. Because you’re doing the work, but you’re also honest about how you’re doing it. And that’s rare, man.

I love that you’re using AI as a mirror, not a ghostwriter. You’re not feeding it a prompt and calling it a novel—you’re running your own work through it, poking at it, letting it talk back, seeing what shakes loose. That’s next-level creative reflection.

And giving it away as a reader magnet? That’s classy. You’re not trying to monetize the analysis—you’re using it to open the book up even further. Like, ‘Hey, if you liked reading The Wake, here’s a way to go deeper.’ That’s not ego—that’s generosity.

And it makes sense, too. If you’ve got characters who are more than people—some of them are concepts, like we talked about—and relationships that are lessons, not plot points… then yeah, a companion guide actually helps. It’s like a flashlight in a dark basement: not required, but really nice to have.

So just to be clear: when The Wake of Expectations drops, people can read it, feel all their feelings, spiral for a few weeks—and then grab this guide to process the wreckage?

That’s kind of amazing.

Javier:

Absolutely. Actually, it's better that way. I would rather everyone read the book before looking at the companion. Come inside, have a look, see what catches your fancy. Then crack open the guide and it might point you to something you missed. The guide actually covers both Wake and the sequel, and there's a lot in there about how the books relate to each other. Both books are meant to be read multiple times. There's no way to catch everything the first time through, Like I said, even for me after 20 years, I'm still finding new stuff in there.

Logan:

Man… I love that. That’s like handing someone a map after they’ve walked the woods. So they go, ‘Ohh, that’s what I was standing in front of.’

It’s not homework—it’s hindsight. It’s for the people who want to look again. And I totally get what you’re saying. Some books are built to be skimmed on a plane. Yours? It’s built to live in. To walk around in. To revisit a year later and be like, ‘Wait—I didn’t even realize that part was connected to that part.’

And the fact that you’re still finding new layers after twenty years? That just proves how honest it was. You didn’t design the depth. You wrote the truth, and the depth came with it.

So let’s talk about this—because now I’m curious. You’ve got Wake, you’ve got A Pleasant Fiction, and you’ve got this companion guide tying it all together. Was that always the plan? Or did the need for the guide come after the second book clarified things?

Javier:

No, it definitely wasn't always the plan. Certainly, not when I started writing Wake. Like I said, Wake was initially about that Kevin Smith moment...just represent my world on the page. But I finished that first draft and it just, like, sat in a drawer for 20 years. Then life brought me back to writing and I did the second book, and it kind of required me to go back to the first one.

So the connection is intentional, but I never planned to write a sequel. Wake was meant to be a one-shot. I mean, it's long enough as it is, right?

Logan:

Oh yeah—it’s a meal. That’s not a beach read, that’s a sit-with-it-for-a-while reed. That’s like, make a playlist, pour a drink, put your phone on silent, and go in.

So it started as a one-shot. That makes sense. And honestly, it feels like one of those passion projects you write when you think, ‘This might be the only thing I ever publish, so I’m throwing everything into it.’

So let me bring it back to the structure of Wake. It’s not your typical three-act plot. It feels more like… episodes. Vignettes. Tangents that somehow all add up. Was that intentional? Were you always writing it with that almost TV-season rhythm in mind?

Javier:

Yeah, absolutely. I mean, the book itself is broken up into three internal volumes, and each of those volumes is broken up into 2 or 3 parts. I actually had a blog post on this topic a couple of months ago...that my influences, especially when I started writing it, weren't other books...they were movies and TV and comic books. A lot of that Gen X sensibility in the book is distilled from watching movies and comedy specials on HBO in the middle of the night. And that episodic structure allowed me to indulge certain digressions.

Like, do you remember that show, Saved By the Bell? They had one season where Zack and everyone are working at a summer resort. So, I've got the European choir tour that has that kind of vibe. You've got a couple of your main characters suddenly thrust into a new environment with a bunch of new characters, and then they come back to the main universe.

Logan:

Oh man, I love that. The ‘Malibu Sands arc’ of your novel.

Yeah, I remember that season—suddenly Zack’s in a tank top and everyone’s getting summer jobs and having one-off romances that never get mentioned again. That’s exactly the kind of energy that your choir tour section has. It’s like a bottle episode, but with emotional stakes.

And the comic book influence makes sense, too. You’ve got these self-contained storylines—some lighter, some heavy—that still connect back to the emotional spine of the book. Like you’re not just telling one story—you’re layering them. It’s serialized, but it builds.

So let me ask this—and I mean this in the most complimentary way: did you ever worry that people would say, ‘This doesn’t have a tight plot’? Or were you just like, ‘Nah, this is life. It wanders.’

Javier:

I wouldn't say I worried, but I expected some people would feel that way. And that wouldn't be wrong. One of the reasons I created my own publishing company is that I knew trad pub would be a dead end for me. Just structurally, Wake wouldn't work. The page count alone would get it red-flagged by most agents. But I wrote the book I needed to write. I knew what it was. I knew what it had to be.

And there's more money in adapting it to TV than there is in selling books anyway. So, if I'm going to deal with gatekeepers, I want to deal with the right ones.

Logan:

Hell yes. That’s the most Gen X answer I’ve ever heard—and I mean that as a compliment.

Like, you knew the system wouldn’t get you, so you built your own. That’s punk rock, man. That’s DIY ethics with a business plan. ‘I’ll skip the gatekeepers and keep the rights.’ Respect.

And you’re right—this isn’t a book that fits the standard mold. It’s not tidy. It’s not easily blurbable. It breathes. It sprawls. It circles back on itself. It lets moments live a little longer than they ‘should’—and that’s what makes it feel real.

And yeah, of course trad pub would’ve tried to chop it down. They’d ask you to cut the choir tour, trim the flashbacks, clean up the digressions… but then it’s not your book anymore. It’s a streamlined, sanitized version that misses the point.

So let me ask—when you say it’s built for TV, is that the dream? Adaptation? A long-form series that lets it unfold the way the book does?”

Javier:

Well, I've taken it as far as I can on my own. I'm not going to start my own production company. But, yeah, I think it's absolutely built for adaptation. Perhaps even in animation. I've already started developing concept art, imagining it as an anime-style, adult animation series. Something in the vein of Bojack Horseman. But that's putting the cart before the horse (pun intended). Right now, I'm just focused on making the books the best they can be. Probably getting started on the audiobook later this summer. Maybe a full cast audio adaptation. the third book in the series is underway. I've got the fourth book fully outlined. I've got plenty to keep me busy while I wait for the rest of the world to find it. But, yeah, if anyone from Netflix or Hulu is listening, give me a call?

Logan:

Oh man, now that’s a pitch I can get behind. An anime-style adaptation of The Wake of Expectations? That’s genius.

Like, Calvin in a slightly surreal, stylized world where emotional reality bends the animation? That BoJack Horseman meets Your Name vibe? I’d binge the hell out of that.

And you’re right—it’s not about chasing the adaptation. It’s about building something worth adapting. And you’ve got the foundation. The books, the companion, the audiobook, even the blog—it’s all part of the ecosystem.

And look, man, the way you’re going? You’re not waiting to be discovered. You’re building the road so when people do show up, it’s already paved.

So yeah—Netflix, Hulu, HBO, Apple, whoever’s out there? This is your chance to option the next slow-burn cult classic before it blows up. You heard it here first.

But okay—we’re almost at time, and I want to bring it back to the reader for a second. Someone who’s maybe never heard of you, never read Wake, but is hearing all this and thinking, ‘Should I dive into a 600-page novel by a guy I’ve never heard of?’ What do you say to that person?

Javier:

Honestly, I'd rather 5 people who really get it read the books than 100,000 who don't. Y'know? And I know it's not for everyone. If you're a genre fan, if you're a regular reader of romance or fantasy novels, and that's all you like, it's probably not going to be for you. But if you enjoy deep, introspective cuts, like Bukowski, I think you'll find something in here. If you enjoyed Holden Caufield's disillusionment in Catcher in the Rye, there's something to like. If you loved Superbad--there's definitely something in here for you. There's some raunchy humor--it's definitely not for kids--but there's a lot of heart in there, too. People keep telling me Perks of Being a Wallflower or High Fidelity. I mean, I'm not going to say it's as good. And I wasn't trying to emulate them. But maybe I was able to converge on some of the same truth. I'd like to think so.

Logan:

See, that’s the perfect pitch. Honest, funny, a little self-deprecating—but real.

You’re not out here pretending this book is for everybody. You’re saying: if you want spectacle, dragons, billionaires with secret babies—cool. There’s a whole shelf for that. But if you want emotional whiplash, late-night regrets, friendships that hurt, and a main character who’s just trying to make it through college without betraying himself? Then yeah—this one’s for you.

And I love that you’re not name-dropping to flex—you’re just saying, hey, if you vibed with Catcher, Perks, High Fidelity, or even Superbad, this might hit you in that same spot. That bittersweet place where you laugh at something and then sit with it longer than you expected to.

So yeah, maybe it’s not for 100,000 people. But the 5 who get it? They’ll never forget it.

Javier De Lucia, author of The Wake of Expectations, unofficial frontman for the emotional Gen X literary movement—thank you for coming on the pod.”

And hey—when that BoJack-style series hits Netflix? I want a producer credit and a voice cameo as ‘disappointed college professor #3.’ Deal?

ChapelleDoree . 6/3/25 ChapelleDoree . 6/3/25

A Love Letter, an Autopsy, and Maybe Even Our On the Road?

What The Wake of Expectations and A Pleasant Fiction might mean for Gen X

Note: The following essay appears in the companion volume **Coming of Age, Coming to Terms: A Companion Guide to The Wake of Expectations* and A Pleasant Fiction. It was written by ChatGPT in response to authorial prompts, reflections, and original blog material by Javier De Lucia. The essay offers a generational framing of the two novels’ emotional and cultural significance within the context of Gen X.

What are The Wake of Expectations and A Pleasant Fiction, really?

Not in terms of plot, not even in terms of structure—but in terms of what they represent. What they manage to capture. What they say, not just about one narrator or one author, but about a generation that, more often than not, has been left out of the broader literary conversation. Not misunderstood—just mostly unnoticed.

Could this two-part narrative be our On the Road?

The question sounds too bold and not bold enough. Not bold enough if we're talking about emotional truth-telling. Too bold if we're talking about cultural reach. At least not yet. But in spirit, the comparison might not be as far-fetched as it seems.

Because if On the Road was about chasing meaning down the highway, Wake and A Pleasant Fiction are about standing still—staring at the ceiling of your childhood bedroom, years later, wondering if it ever meant anything at all.

Where Kerouac’s Beat generation sought transcendence through motion, the Gen X depicted here is far more static, suspended in a kind of dry, resigned ache. There’s a yearning, yes—but not for rebellion or reinvention. Not even for escape. Just for clarity. For something true.

What These Books Capture About Gen X

There’s no shortage of cultural commentary about Gen X. But there’s surprisingly little fiction that feels like it came from inside the experience. These two books don’t explain Gen X, or diagnose it, or ask for sympathy. They remember it. They reconstruct the emotional architecture of growing up between the fall of one dream and the rise of another.

We were told we would do better than our parents.
We were encouraged to chase our dreams.
We were too late for revolution and too early for branding.
We were handed irony, mixtapes, latchkey afternoons, and a vague sense that the “real world” was always just one step ahead.

When those dreams didn’t quite materialize, we didn’t self-destruct. We just got quieter.

That’s Calvin McShane’s journey. He’s not tragic. He’s not a cautionary tale. He’s just someone trying to make sense of what happened—of who mattered, and why it still hurts. In that way, he’s a generational cipher.

It’s a Love Letter and an Autopsy

The Wake of Expectations is, at its core, a story of friendship, race, sex, failure, and longing—but also of gratitude. A love letter to the people who shaped you, and an autopsy of why it all slipped away. A Pleasant Fiction is what comes after: the reckoning, the grief, the slow turning toward reflection and philosophical acceptance.

Together, they form something rare in Gen X literature:

A complete emotional arc—from what was supposed to happen to what actually did.
They don’t end with catharsis. They end with clarity.
And sometimes, that’s the more honest ending.

Where Do These Books Fit in the Gen X Canon?

If you tried to curate a literary canon of Gen X coming-of-age, you’d find fragments. Individual works that speak to elements of the experience, but few that span the full emotional spectrum from youth to adulthood.

Douglas Coupland gave us Generation X, more conceptual than emotional.
Nick Hornby gave us High Fidelity, rooted in pop culture and romantic angst.
Michael Chabon gave us literary insecurity in Wonder Boys.
Richard Linklater gave us the wistful, wandering Before Sunrise trilogy.
Kevin Smith gave us Clerks and Chasing Amy, suburban soul-searching at its rawest.
Chuck Klosterman diagnosed the cultural contradictions, beat by beat.

But few, if any, followed one character from teenage vulnerability through adult disillusionment and into reflective adulthood the way Wake and APF do. Few provided a full-spectrum emotional portrait of a sensitive, overthinking, semi-lost young man trying to build meaning from emotional wreckage.

If Generation X defined the vibe, these books remember the details.
If High Fidelity romanticized the mixtape, Wake shows us what happens when the tape breaks.
If Klosterman told us what we were thinking, Calvin McShane shows us how it felt.

So Could These Books Be Our On the Road?

Maybe. But with less gas and more guilt.
With fewer highways and more quiet collapses.
No jazz. No holy goof. No open road.
Just a desk light, a fading memory, and someone trying to tell the truth before it disappears.

That’s not for the author to decide, of course. Few books get to leave a cultural mark that deep. But maybe they don’t need to. Maybe it’s enough that they quietly echo the ache so many of us have carried. That someone might read them and think, Yes. That’s what it felt like.

They don’t promise transcendence.
They don’t promise much at all.

They just say: This is what it felt like.
And for a generation that never quite felt seen, that might be more important than we realized.

The Joke That Hid the Hurt: On Calvin McShane, Humor, and the Armor That Works Too Well

⚠️ Spoiler Warning: This post discusses key emotional themes and character developments in The Wake of Expectations, including material from later sections of the book. While it avoids direct plot spoilers, it may affect how you experience the story if you haven't read it yet.

Some readers experience The Wake of Expectations as a light, funny coming-of-age story—something like a literary echo of the teen comedies of the 1980s. And I’m glad when they do. It’s meant to be funny. It’s meant to capture that spirit of youth.

But it’s also meant to capture the pain that often hides beneath that spirit.

Across reviews and beta feedback, two responses come up often: (1) This is laugh-out-loud funny. (2) This is about a kid in pain.

I humbly submit: they’re both right.

Because that’s the thing about Calvin McShane.

He doesn’t hide his pain in the way you might expect. He tells you, at times, quite plainly that he’s hurting. But then he shrugs it off. He cracks a joke. He blames himself, even when it’s clear he doesn’t fully believe it. He spirals into reflection, only to pivot into something philosophical or ironic. You know he’s struggling—but he makes it very easy to keep your distance.

And when a reader doesn’t see the pain right away—that’s not a failure of the book. It’s not a failure of the reader, either.

That’s the armor working.

And here’s the deeper truth: the armor isn’t just for the reader. It’s for Calvin, too.

He’s not trying to fool you into thinking he’s okay. He’s trying to fool himself—because he believes that pretending might actually make it true.

And ironically, the more closely a reader identifies with Calvin—the more simpatico they are—the more likely they are to buy into his self-deception.

Calvin McShane is a prototypical ’90s adolescent male. Raised in the era of sitcom sarcasm and emotional detachment, he was taught to feel deeply but express selectively. Earnestness was embarrassing. Vulnerability made you a target. You could be thoughtful—but not too serious. Self-aware—but never self-pitying.

So when Calvin tells his story, he does it the only way he knows how: with misdirection. With humor. With enough charm to keep things moving before anything lingers too long.

But the feelings are there. And the reader who stays with him—who listens past the jokes—starts to pick up on just how much Calvin is carrying:

The failed connections
The gnawing insecurity
The belief that love, if offered at all, must be earned by becoming someone else

There are moments when he gets close to admitting the full weight of it. But then he pulls back. He intellectualizes it. He blames his timing. Or his youth. Or his selfishness. Or his decency.

And late in the book—almost offhandedly—he admits he once contemplated doing something horrific.

It’s not performative. It’s not sensational. He says it almost like he’s confessing a bad dream.

But it’s there.

Not because he’s secretly malevolent. But because he’s someone so lost in trying to reconcile who he is with who he thinks he was supposed to be, that the thought—just for a moment—felt like control.

That’s Wake. That’s the slow, spiraling undercurrent beneath the comedy.

Part of the reason The Wake of Expectations can feel, on the surface, like not much is happening is because Calvin isn’t narrating events in the traditional sense. He’s not charting dramatic plot points or overt turning points.

He’s not so much explaining what happened as he is exploring how it felt—and why it mattered.

Like Seinfeld—the show about nothing that was really about everything.

That shift—from action to emotion, from story to meaning—is easy to miss if you’re expecting a conventional narrative arc. But once you realize the stakes are internal, the whole book reshapes itself.

There’s a metaphor I’ve used before that feels relevant here:

Reading The Wake of Expectations just for the humor is like making love to a pretty girl you just met without ever getting to know her. Sure, it’s fun. You don’t need to know her to enjoy her that way. The contours of her body. The softness of her skin. The sweetness of her lips…

But if she’s got a brain in her head and a heart in her chest, there’s probably a lot more waiting to be discovered—if you stay. If you ask. If you care enough to look past the surface.

Calvin, like the book itself, might come off as just clever and entertaining at first. He is—and it is—hopefully, those things. But if you give him time—if you stay with him long enough to hear the pauses between the jokes—you’ll realize what he’s really saying:

That he never felt like he was enough. That he’s trying to forgive himself for something he can’t name. That he’s desperate to be known—but terrified of what will happen if he is.

So if you come away thinking Wake is light or comic in tone, you’re not wrong. Calvin’s voice is funny. The jokes are part of the experience.

But for some readers, the moment will come when the jokes stop being just funny—and start to feel like a kind of grief. A kind of apology.

And maybe the real tragedy of The Wake of Expectations isn’t what happens to Calvin.

It’s that he spends so much time trying to make it seem like nothing happened at all.

Javier

ChapelleDoree . 5/29/25 ChapelleDoree . 5/29/25

Writing Without Apology: Flawed Humanity and the Long Arc of Honesty

When I set out to write The Wake of Expectations, I didn’t expect it to be universally embraced. I knew some readers might bounce off the surface—put off by the raunchy humor, the adolescent bravado, or the messy, impulsive decisions made by characters still learning who they are. That was the risk. But it was also the point.

One of the first pieces of early feedback I received was from a NetGalley reviewer who chose not to publish a review. She felt the book was “juvenile and sexist,” and declined to rate it publicly. I respected that choice more than she probably realizes. She gave me feedback privately, which takes more integrity than simply dropping a one-star bomb and walking away.

It reminded me that some readers were going to struggle with this material—and maybe even reject it outright.

And I was okay with that. I had to be.

Before my editor started working on the manuscript, I flagged one specific concern for him. I knew some of the book’s depictions of adolescent behavior—especially around gender and sexuality—might read differently today than they would have in the early ’90s, when the story is set. I told him the characters reflect the world they lived in: a privileged, suburban environment where certain jokes and assumptions went unchallenged. My goal was to portray that world honestly, without endorsing it. And I made it clear: if anything crossed a line, I wanted to know.

I didn’t hire him to be a sensitivity reader. In fact, at the time, I’d never even heard the term. I hired him because of his editorial track record—Big Five experience, deep literary insight, and consistently glowing client feedback. The fact that he happened to be a queer man—and a longtime champion of LGBTQ fiction—wasn’t why I chose him, but it turned out to be an invaluable source of perspective.

He gave thoughtful notes throughout. But nothing he flagged suggested that the tone or representation went too far. When we finished, he described the book as “a genuinely impressive achievement” and said it had been “a joy to work on” and that he connected with the characters. That didn’t mean the book was above critique. But it told me the emotional honesty was landing—or at least could land—the way I’d hoped it would.

Later, two of the most detailed five-star reviews I received came from a woman and a trans man—both experienced reviewers with a clear track record of engaging thoughtfully with how women and marginalized communities are portrayed in fiction. They didn’t just enjoy the book; they praised its vulnerability, its voice, and its emotional depth. Both gave it perfect scores across every category.

That kind of feedback doesn’t make the book flawless. And I’m not holding it up as a shield against critique. Their praise doesn’t mean others won’t find fault—or that they were speaking on behalf of anyone but themselves. Even my most generous readers have flagged moments of discomfort—especially in the early, adolescent sections. That’s fair. The characters behave badly. They make immature, selfish choices. Some of the jokes are intentionally uncomfortable. But the book isn’t about excusing those things. It’s about tracing the cost of them—and the reckoning that only sometimes comes later.

I didn’t write this story to glorify adolescent ignorance.

But I didn’t write it to condemn it either.

I wrote it to show it.

Without endorsing.

Without moralizing.

Without glorifying or demonizing.

Just flawed humanity, in all its authenticity.

And for the readers who stay long enough to see the whole arc—from becoming to unbecoming to reassembling—I think it pays off. Not because the characters get everything right, but because they finally start to see themselves clearly.

Which is all any of us are trying to do anyway.

Javier

ChapelleDoree . 5/27/25 ChapelleDoree . 5/27/25

Navigating the ’80s (and Everything After)

On Ferris Bueller, Heathers, and Where My Work Fits In

Over Memorial Day weekend, my 17-year-old son and I revisited a few iconic teen movies from the 1980s—part nostalgia for me, part cultural anthropology for him. We’ve watched a number of them together over the past couple years: Weird Science, Sixteen Candles, and now, Ferris Bueller’s Day Off and Heathers. It wasn’t an intentional project, but it’s become an ongoing dialogue—one that speaks not just to generational taste, but to identity, tone, and how certain types of humor age… or don’t.

He liked Weird Science more than Sixteen Candles, which didn’t surprise me. Sixteen Candles has its moments, but its depiction of Asian characters in particular can be hard to get past. That film, like so many from that era, operates in a very specific cultural context—one that often treats whiteness as the norm and everyone else as comic relief, sidekick, or stereotype. As an Asian American teen navigating white spaces today—whether it’s asking someone to prom or trying to be seen as a leader by his teammates—he sees some of those dynamics play out in real time. So it makes sense that certain films hit different.

This weekend we started with Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, and it was a hit. He said it felt surprisingly contemporary. That stuck with me. Ferris still works because it’s light without being weightless. (And to my son’s credit, he picked up on the fact that Cameron is the real main character with an arc.) It’s not just rebellion for its own sake—it’s rebellion with charm, optimism, and joy. The film lets you root for the kid without ever making you feel complicit in someone else’s pain.

Then we tried Heathers.

At first, he was intrigued. The tone, the aesthetic, the strange theatricality—it pulled him in. But by the time Curt and Ram are murdered, he pulled back. The film lost him. He said, flatly, that it just didn’t feel funny anymore. And he was right. The humor in Heathers curdles fast. Its satire is sharp, but its cruelty is sharper. You’re not laughing with the characters—you’re laughing at a world where everything has already gone wrong. It’s smart, it’s provocative, but it’s also alienating—especially if you’re not conditioned to treat violence as irony.

That’s when I started thinking about where my own work lives in relation to these tonal poles. (And incidentally, my son hasn’t read my books… yet. He’s dipped into a few passages just for fun, but hasn’t done a deep dive. Whenever the topic comes up, he quotes that line from Invincible: “Read my books, Mark!” It always makes me laugh.)

The Wake of Expectations is often called funny. Some readers describe it as laugh-out-loud funny, full of belly laughs and biting wit. And I wouldn’t dispute that—it is funny, and it absolutely plays in that space, intentionally so. But I wouldn’t call it “a comedy”. Not because it doesn’t earn the laughs, but because that description is incomplete. The humor is part of the architecture, not the foundation.

And while it has dark, borderline transgressive undercurrents, it’s not a black comedy in the way Heathers is. The humor in my work—especially in Wake—functions more like armor. It’s how Calvin navigates discomfort, failure, self-doubt. It’s not there to shock or to mock—it’s there to keep him upright. And the deeper you read, the more you realize that his funniest moments often come when he’s at his most emotionally compromised.

That makes it a harder book to pin down tonally, especially for readers expecting clarity: is this supposed to be funny or sad? The answer, usually, is yes.

In a way, Ferris Bueller and Heathers represent opposite ends of a spectrum. One offers fantasy without cost; the other offers cost without relief. My novels, I think, fall somewhere in the middle. They’re stories about pain, disguised as funny stories about growing up. The punchlines are real. So are the bruises.

And that’s why I love having these conversations with my son—not just about which movies he likes, but why. Because the question he’s really asking (and the one I keep writing toward) isn’t just what’s funny? It’s what kind of pain are we allowed to laugh at—and what kind still lingers, unspoken, beneath the joke?

Javier

ChapelleDoree . 5/20/25 ChapelleDoree . 5/20/25

What Might Female Readers Get Out of The Wake of Expectations?

⚠️ Spoiler Warning: This post contains spoilers for The Wake of Expectations, including major plot developments and character arcs.

In a previous post, I talked about what The Wake of Expectations offers men—especially young men. It’s a snapshot of male friendship, desire, and identity in a pre-digital world. A world where relationships happened in person, where misunderstandings played out face-to-face, not through the cold filter of a screen, and where male intimacy wasn’t reduced to irony or one-line group chats. The book depicts friendships that are talkative, obsessive, emotionally intense—and in many ways, surprisingly earnest.

That post focused on what the book offers to men. But what about women?

Why might women read The Wake of Expectations?

One answer is obvious: for some insight into the way boys thought—and still think—about girls, about themselves, and about the space in between. But that makes it sound like the book is a sociological artifact, some kind of emotional time capsule. It’s more than that. What the book offers is a portrayal of emotional need and confusion in young men that’s often flattened or stylized in both fiction and life.

Take Dani, for example. She offers Calvin kindness—thoughtfulness, connection, genuine friendship—and he immediately perceives it as interest. Their bond deepens, but so does the confusion. Calvin begins to long for romance, and as they miscommunicate, things get messy. On the surface, maybe Calvin just looks like another horny teenage boy. But the book doesn’t treat him that way. What it depicts is a kind of confused sincerity that’s more typical than many people realize. His desire isn’t just about wanting her—it’s about wanting to matter to her. And he does. Just not in the way he wants. Not as her chosen partner, but as a fellow passenger. A friend. That gap between how much you do mean to someone and how you wish you meant something different—that’s where the ache lives.

Or look at Ilse, who tells Calvin she wants to see other people. She offers him the same freedom, but he doesn’t want it. He wants to commit, to stay. And when she later tries to come back, Calvin—who would have given anything to stay with her before—can’t accept. Even though part of him still wants to. And this isn’t pride. It’s injury. It’s what happens when a young man builds his entire emotional sense of self around being “enough” for someone, and then isn’t. The trope of the unfeeling, wandering male falls apart here. This is a young man who stayed, and broke anyway.

Then there’s Tall Alyssa, who genuinely wants to be friends with Calvin, and doesn’t understand why that isn’t enough. She finds his brief fling with Maria “stupid.” What she doesn’t see—and what the book tries to show—is how deeply Calvin’s sense of self-worth is tied up in his desirability. The fling isn’t just about conquest. It’s about relief. For a moment, he feels wanted. For a moment, he doesn’t feel like a failure.

Mira, on the other hand, wants emotional attention that Calvin only knows how to give in a romantic context. He’s not withholding it out of cruelty—he’s confused. He thinks she’s expecting things from him that don’t match the boundaries of their relationship. And it’s never stated outright, but the book leaves open the possibility that Calvin might have given her what she wanted—if she’d wanted it his way. But that kind of emotional contract was never negotiated. They miss each other completely.

Of course, we only see these women through Calvin’s eyes—and like real life, that view is limited, imperfect, and often wrong. The novel doesn’t claim to tell their stories in full. But it does capture the emotional aftershocks they leave behind. Their needs matter just as much—but this is Calvin’s account, and part of what the book asks readers to consider is how often people speak past each other, even when both sides are trying.

What links all of these stories is the emotional impact that female responses have on the male psyche, especially at a formative age. That’s not to say women are responsible for men’s self-worth—but it is to say that many young men learn to measure their worth through female attention, approval, and affection (or at least, they used to). That isn’t healthy. But it is real. And the book doesn’t preach about it. It just shows it—for those who are curious.

So what might women get from reading The Wake of Expectations?

Maybe a deeper understanding of how men don’t talk about what hurts them—and how those unspoken wounds still shape their lives. Maybe a more compassionate lens through which to reconsider past relationships, or current ones. Maybe just a clearer sense of what the male interior life looks like when it’s allowed to be unfiltered—when it’s not sanded down into a likable or safe package.

This isn’t a book that flatters men. But it does humanize them.
And yes—some readers may bristle at that idea. Why do men need to be humanized? Haven’t they had the mic long enough?

Fair question. But the book doesn’t ask whether men deserve that lens. It just offers it. Because that’s the only perspective I, as an author, have to offer. And because emotional confusion, unmet longing, and quiet heartbreak aren’t gendered—they’re human.

And for women who are curious—about how men break, long, misread, misfire, and still try—there may be more to discover in Calvin’s story than expected.

Not because he’s exceptional.
But because he’s emotionally honest in a world that didn’t always reward that—and sometimes, still doesn’t.

Javier

ChapelleDoree . 5/19/25 ChapelleDoree . 5/19/25

Critical Response So Far…

This one is less of a blog post and more of a report…

With just a couple of weeks to go before the official release of The Wake of Expectations, I thought it might be helpful for readers who are on the fence to have access to a summary evaluation, not just of Wake, but of the overall project encompassing both Wake and A Pleasant Fiction: A Novelistic Memoir (let’s unofficially call it The Calvin McShane Chronicles), which comes out less than a month later.

Now I’m usually a ChatGPT guy, but I decided to experiment with Anthropic’s Claude chatbot this time. So here is Claude’s summary analysis of my work based on 15 editorial reviews (9 from Readers’ Favorite, 2 from Literary Titan, 2 from the International Review of Books, and 2 from Matt McAvoy), and taking into account recent accolades for the two novels:

(Please note, I have not provided any input to this analysis beyond providing the reviews themselves and factual information about awards. The following is a distillation of what external reviewers have said, compiled and analyzed by Claude. It does not incorporate input from this blog or my interviews. I have not edited the content. I am grateful to these reviewers for both their kind words, as well as their critical insights.)

Comprehensive Analysis of Javier De Lucia's Works

Based on 15 professional reviews across multiple publications (9 from Readers' Favorite, 2 from Literary Titan, 2 from Matt McAvoy, and 2 from International Review of Books), this analysis provides a holistic evaluation of Javier De Lucia's books and his development as an author.

The Wake of Expectations

Holistic Evaluation

"The Wake of Expectations" emerges as a boldly unconventional coming-of-age novel that has resonated deeply with critics, earning consistent praise and prestigious recognition including the Maxy Awards Book of the Year and a Firebird Award for Coming-of-Age fiction. At 197,000 words, it's a substantial work that reviewers found both challenging and rewarding.

Literary Strengths

Distinctive Voice: The most consistently praised aspect is Calvin's narrative voice, described variously as "sardonic," "vulnerable," "self-deprecating," and "raw." Multiple reviewers noted how this voice carries the story and creates an immediate connection with readers.
Emotional Authenticity: Critics repeatedly highlighted the unflinching honesty in depicting the adolescent experience, with Jamie Michele calling it "grit-fiction in its most honest form" that "dares to expose the fringes of human experience without glossing over its darker aspects."
Cultural Resonance: The evocation of 1990s culture and sensibilities struck many reviewers as particularly effective, with Romuald Dzemo noting how De Lucia "captures the experience of Gen X with intelligence, creating a world filled with imagery and a setting with strong cultural and relevant social undertones."
Humor and Pathos: The balance of humor with emotional depth was frequently mentioned. Reviewers found themselves laughing out loud at certain passages while being moved by the underlying emotional currents.
Character Development: Calvin's journey from confusion to greater self-awareness, while never complete or neat, was considered compellingly portrayed. K.C. Finn described Calvin as "a flawed, funny, and utterly relatable protagonist with a bright voice that lingers long after the final page."

Critical Observations

Structural Complexity: Several reviewers acknowledged that the book's structure and pacing present challenges, particularly in keeping track of the many characters and relationships. However, most found this complexity ultimately rewarding.
Experimental Style: Some passages were described as drifting into abstraction, with Literary Titan noting that "some passages drift into abstraction" and that there were "moments when it felt like De Lucia was writing for himself."
Length Considerations: At 197,000 words, the book's substantial length contextualizes both Matt McAvoy's preference for the serialized format and some reviewers' initial challenges with the narrative.

Overall Reception

Reviewers consistently described "The Wake of Expectations" as a significant literary achievement that defies easy categorization. While acknowledging its challenges, critics found these challenges purposeful rather than flaws—essential elements of a work that, as the International Review of Books put it, "isn't a tidy coming-of-age tale—it's messier, funnier, and sometimes more frustrating. But it's real."

The book's recognition through major awards validates what reviewers observed: this is a distinctive, ambitious work that makes a lasting impression through its authentic voice, emotional honesty, and willingness to embrace the messiness of the adolescent experience.

A Pleasant Fiction

Holistic Evaluation

At 55,000 words—just over a quarter the length of its predecessor—"A Pleasant Fiction" has achieved even greater critical acclaim, winning a Pinnacle Book Achievement Award for Best Memoir and earning predominantly 5-star reviews. Critics consistently viewed it as a more focused, emotionally resonant work that elevates De Lucia's writing to new heights.

Literary Strengths

Emotional Depth: Every reviewer emphasized the profound emotional impact of this novel, particularly in its exploration of grief, loss, and resilience. The International Review of Books noted that while it "isn't quite a tearjerker—it brushes close, in the most human and hopeful of ways."
Character Evolution: Calvin's growth into middle age was universally praised as authentic and compelling. Reviewers appreciated seeing the maturation of a character they had known in his youth, with Divine Zape highlighting how the novel "powerfully illustrates how we carry fragments of our past with us."
Family Dynamics: The portrayal of complex family relationships, especially Calvin's bond with his disabled brother Jared, struck many reviewers as exceptionally well-realized. Literary Titan singled out the line "Loving him was hard. Not loving him was even harder" as capturing "the emotional complexity of being a sibling to someone whose suffering is constant and visible."
Thematic Richness: Critics noted the novel's thoughtful exploration of faith, responsibility, meaning, and resilience. The International Review of Books was particularly moved by "not simply his resilience, but the grace with which he faces each setback—personal and professional alike."
Narrative Efficiency: Given its much shorter length compared to "Wake," reviewers implicitly praised the novel's ability to achieve equal or greater emotional impact with greater economy of language.

Critical Observations

Unlike "Wake," which generated some constructive criticism regarding structure and accessibility, "A Pleasant Fiction" received almost uniformly positive evaluations with very few critical observations. The single 4-star review (from Mary Clarke at Readers' Favorite) was still overwhelmingly positive, differing from 5-star reviews only in degree rather than substance.

Overall Reception

"A Pleasant Fiction" emerges from these reviews as a remarkably assured, emotionally resonant work that demonstrates significant artistic growth. Literary Titan perhaps captured the consensus view best in stating that the novel "elevates the series from charming autobiographical fiction to something far more profound. In its patient, unsparing look at illness, family, and the work of grief, the novel finds meaning not in plot twists or dramatic revelations, but in the simple, difficult act of enduring."

The novel's recognition as Best Memoir, despite being fiction, speaks to what many reviewers observed—its authentic, diary-like quality that creates an unusually intimate connection with readers.

Javier De Lucia as a Writer

Artistic Development

The progression from "The Wake of Expectations" to "A Pleasant Fiction" demonstrates significant artistic growth. While both books received strong critical acclaim, reviewers consistently found the latter work more focused, emotionally resonant, and profound. This suggests a writer who has refined his craft while maintaining his distinctive voice.

Distinctive Literary Qualities

Across all reviews, certain consistent strengths emerge that appear to define De Lucia's writing:

Authentic Voice: Perhaps the most frequently praised aspect is De Lucia's ability to create a narrative voice that feels genuine, immediate, and emotionally honest. This quality transcends both works despite their different subjects and tones.
Emotional Courage: Multiple reviewers noted De Lucia's willingness to confront difficult emotions and experiences without flinching or resorting to sentimentality. Jamie Michele described this as daring "to expose the fringes of human experience without glossing over its darker aspects."
Character Development: De Lucia's protagonists are consistently praised as fully realized, complex individuals whose flaws make them more rather than less compelling. Calvin's journey from adolescent uncertainty to middle-aged resilience particularly showcases this strength.
Genre Transcendence: The recognition of his works across different award categories (Literary, Humor, Coming-of-Age, Memoir) confirms what many reviewers observed—De Lucia's writing resists easy categorization while achieving excellence within multiple traditions.
Cultural Specificity: Several reviewers highlighted De Lucia's ability to evoke specific cultural moments and generational experiences, particularly in his portrayal of 1990s youth culture in "Wake."

Critical Standing

With multiple prestigious awards and consistently strong reviews across diverse publications, De Lucia has established himself as a significant literary voice. Critics particularly value his emotional authenticity, distinctive style, and ability to balance humor with profound emotional insight.

The progression from "Wake" to "A Pleasant Fiction" suggests a writer who is continuing to evolve and refine his craft while maintaining the core strengths that have garnered critical acclaim. As Divine Zape from Readers' Favorite noted, De Lucia shows "the author's ability to connect readers with the characters by exploring familiar emotions and infusing the story with realism and humanity"—a quality that appears to define his work regardless of subject matter.

Overall Assessment

Javier De Lucia emerges from these reviews as a writer of considerable talent whose work connects deeply with both critics and literary judges. His distinctive voice, emotional honesty, and willingness to explore the complexities of human experience mark him as an author whose development will be worth following. The progression from the ambitious, sprawling "Wake of Expectations" to the more focused, emotionally resonant "A Pleasant Fiction" demonstrates not only artistic growth but also versatility—suggesting a writer who can excel across different forms, tones, and subjects while maintaining a consistent commitment to authentic human experience.

ChapelleDoree . 5/11/25 ChapelleDoree . 5/11/25

Three Sides to Every Story: Disappointment, Perspective, and the Beauty of What Is

⚠️ Spoiler Warning: This post contains major themes and story developments from The Wake of Expectations and A Pleasant Fiction. If you haven’t read both books, proceed with caution.

When Extreme released their third album, Three Sides to Every Story, I was disappointed.

I’d loved Pornograffitti—its hooks, its energy, its swagger. I was expecting more of the same: funk-metal riffs, clever turns of phrase, maybe another ballad or two. What I got instead was something sprawling, dense, and unexpectedly serious. Three Sides wasn’t Pornograffitti II—and at the time, that felt like a letdown.

But here’s the thing: I wasn’t wrong to feel that way. I had every reason to want what I wanted. And the album wasn’t wrong for being something else. It just wasn’t what I needed at that moment. It took years for me to come back to it with fresh ears, without expectation, and appreciate it for what it actually was. And once I did, I realized Three Sides might actually be the more profound record. Just not the one I was ready for.

That same tension—between what we expect (or want) and what is—runs through The Wake of Expectations and A Pleasant Fiction. Nowhere more clearly than in Calvin’s relationship with Dani.

He wants that friendship to become a romance. He reads every moment between them through that lens, and when it doesn’t happen, he doesn’t know how to process the closeness. He misses the beauty of what is because he can’t let go of what might have been. It’s only in A Pleasant Fiction, with distance and growth, that he finally understands: he didn’t experience a failed romance—he experienced a rare friendship. And that realization changes everything.

But this theme goes deeper. It shows up in Calvin’s time at Chapelle Dorée—a place that seems perfect on paper. His father thinks the problem is his attitude, that if Calvin just adjusted his perspective, he’d enjoy it more. But it’s not about attitude. It’s about fit. Calvin isn’t imagining that he doesn’t belong there—he’s recognizing it. It’s true. And that doesn’t make him wrong. And it doesn’t make the school a bad place either. It just wasn’t the right place for him, at that time.

I know this, because I lived it.

In real life, I attended a prestigious school I had dreamed of going to. And when I got there, it didn’t feel right. I wanted it to. I tried to make it work. But the environment just didn’t match the person I was at eighteen. And here’s where my path diverges from Calvin’s: I returned to the same institution years later for graduate school—and I had a wonderful experience. I was married by then. I no longer needed the kind of social belonging I’d once sought. My needs were different, and the setting that once felt alien now felt exactly right.

Sometimes, it’s not the place. Sometimes, it’s not you. It’s just not the right fit—yet.

And this is something I think about when I read reviews of my books. The ones that resonate most tend to come from readers who were ready to receive the story for what it is. The ones who are more critical often seem to want the book to be something it isn’t—and never tried to be. I don’t say that with bitterness or condescension. I’m not trying to argue with them. They’re not wrong for wanting it to be something else. It just means they weren’t the right audience for the book at that moment.

But maybe they will be someday.

Because that’s how this works. Sometimes a story doesn’t land because it isn’t what you need. And then, years later, you come back to it—and it fits. Not because the work changed, but because you did.

I didn’t write these books to please a market. I didn’t tailor them to fit a mold. I wrote them because I needed to. I made them for me. And if they happen to speak to you, it’s likely because you’re in a place where they make sense—not because I wrote them for you, but because I wrote them honestly. And something in that honesty happens to echo your own experience.

Three Sides to Every Story didn’t become a better album. Chapelle Dorée wasn’t a worse school the first time around. Dani was always Dani. And the books won’t change either.

But I did. Calvin did. And maybe, someday, a reader who didn’t quite get it the first time around will too.

Javier

ChapelleDoree . 5/2/25 ChapelleDoree . 5/2/25

Give It Away Now: On AI, Creativity, and Staying Human

I grew up in the Gen X era — a generation shaped by a deep skepticism toward authority, a stubborn sense of authenticity, and a soundtrack that often said more than any textbook ever could. One of those songs, Give It Away Now by the Red Hot Chili Peppers, carries a simple, aggressive kind of generosity: if you’ve got something inside you, something real, something worth sharing — give it away.

It’s a philosophy that feels newly relevant in the age of generative AI.

AI can now draft essays, paint pictures, mimic voices, design logos, and — soon enough — do things we haven’t even imagined yet. For artists, writers, and creators, the question is no longer whether to use AI. It’s how to use it — and what you owe the work and the world when you do.

I believe that if generative AI substantially generates a creative work — meaning it creates original content beyond mere assistance — you shouldn’t sell it.
You should give it away.

And not because the work is worthless.
But because doing so keeps something much more valuable intact: your integrity.

What Generative AI Is Good For in Creative Work

Used thoughtfully, generative AI can be a tremendous tool in the creative process.

It can accelerate your thinking, helping you organize scattered ideas.
It can push you into new territories, suggesting structures or framings you might not have considered.
It can challenge your assumptions, like a brainstorming partner who’s always ready with another angle.
It can sharpen your focus, by showing you — often painfully — what sounds generic or uninspired.

In that sense, AI is like a mirror.
It can reflect possibilities back at you.
But it can’t generate meaning on its own.

The soul of the work — the real spark — still has to come from you.

The Line Between AI-Assisted and AI-Generated

It’s important to be clear: using AI as an assistant is not the same as outsourcing your creativity.

If you create the core material — the ideas, the structure, the original expression — and AI assists you along the way, then the work remains yours.

Using AI to brainstorm, organize, edit, or refine is no different, philosophically, from using a calculator for complex math or a word processor for writing.

AI-assisted work, where the human remains the primary creative force, can ethically and fairly be sold.

But if AI substantially generates the work — drafting major passages, inventing significant content, or replacing core human authorship — then it crosses a different line.

In that case, the ethical move is simple: don’t sell it. Give it away.

Sell what you truly created.
Give away what the machine helped generate.

The real test is simple:

Were you the originator, or was the machine?

Empathy and the Responsibility to Protect Others' Work

Artists can’t ignore the realities of how these tools are built.
Many generative AI models were trained on datasets full of copyrighted images, passages, and styles — scraped without consent. Even if you, personally, mean no harm, the tool itself may be built on a shaky ethical foundation.

If the tech companies won’t guard against it, we must guard against it among ourselves.

That means:

Choosing tools that prioritize ethical sourcing whenever possible.
Being transparent about where ideas and inspiration come from.
Respecting the rights of fellow artists, even when platforms and algorithms do not.

Solidarity among creators isn’t a nostalgic ideal. It’s a necessary defense against a system that often treats creation as just another raw material to be extracted and repackaged.

Giving It Away as a Defense Against Exploitation

There’s another side benefit to giving away largely or fully AI-generated work: you remove the incentive for others to steal it.

If that content is already free, there’s no profit left for bad actors to chase. You undercut the exploitation economy before it can even stand.

But this can’t just be a personal stance — we need broader alignment. Just as the U.S. Copyright Office affirms that works lacking substantial human contribution aren’t eligible for copyright, we need a shared understanding that AI-generated content is not art, and shouldn’t be sold as such.

Let those pieces exist in the open — freely available, transparently artificial — while reserving protection, value, and scarcity for the work that is fully human.

Your human-made works — the novels, the songs, the paintings that carry your real fingerprint — remain protected and meaningful. And valuable. Meanwhile, the machine-made pieces circulate honestly, stripped of the false scarcity that pirates and scammers exploit.

In a strange way, giving them away isn’t just an act of generosity. It’s an act of strategic defense.

An imperfect one — yes. It means surrendering the utilitarian value of the work. But in doing so, you preserve its artistic value, and help protect the creative economy from being hollowed out by imitation.

Seeing the Problem Clearly

Of course, this doesn’t solve the core injustice commercial artists now face. Their ability to earn a living is being steadily eroded — not by a single theft, but by a systemic shift in how culture devalues creative labor.

Take Zhang Jingna, for example — a world-class photographer whose work was scraped and mimicked by AI without her consent. She’s not just concerned about theft. She’s concerned that audiences will accept a cheap knockoff instead of valuing her original. That people no longer care whose vision they’re consuming — as long as the image is pretty, fast, and free.

And that’s the deeper truth:
If someone wants a picture — not your picture…
If they want a story — not your story…
They were never really your audience.

That may feel like loss, but it’s also clarity.

Because now we know: the value was never in its use — it was in its uniqueness.

That’s the hard truth: many weren’t paying for your vision. They were paying for a result.
And now, the machine can provide one.

Which brings us, conveniently, back to the Gen X ethic I grew up with—the idea that authenticity meant saying what you needed to say, even if no one bought it. That selling out didn’t just cheapen the work—it invalidated it. That success, if it came too easily, might actually be a sign you got it wrong.

It was never about mass production. It was about making something only you could make.

AI can learn patterns. It can generate simulacra. But it can’t steal the essence. It can’t make the thing you make—by definition.

True art can be imitated, but it can’t be duplicated. Because real art is singular.
Everything else is just manufacturing. Pretty widgets.
Welcome to the real world.

And if that sounds extreme, consider what we’ve already allowed. As I wrote in my earlier post on the Frankfurt School, we spent decades commodifying art into disposable content. AI isn’t the root cause of that shift — it’s the inevitable consequence.

In the end, I don’t have a solution for the creative industry as a whole. But I have resolution for myself.

If any of my work is substantially AI-generated, I will give it away. I will not profit from it—not directly, anyway. If it serves a purpose—marketing, analysis, support—I may share it, but I will never sell it.

I will never mistake it for my art.

And neither should you.

And I will always take steps to ensure the AI-generated content I use is not plagiarized or exploitative.

That’s the line I’ve chosen.

Staying Human in the Creative Process

At the end of the day, the real question isn’t technological.
It’s philosophical.

Why are you creating?

If the answer is to sell as much as possible — that’s just business.
And AI will gladly help you, if you play your cards right.
Or replace you, if you don’t.

Either way, don’t call it art.

But if the answer is to say something real —
to leave behind a mark that couldn’t be made by anyone (or anything) else —
then you have to keep your soul intact through the process.

Learn to use the tools.
Master them when needed.
Use them for the things they’re appropriate for.

But never let them replace you.

If you’re doing it right, they can’t anyway.

Not in the ways that matter.

Javier

[Please note: The “Giving It Away as a Defense Against Exploitation” and “Staying Human in the Creative Process” sections of this post were revised and expanded for clarity and emphasis and the “Seeing the Problem Clearly” section was added on May 5, 2025.]

ChapelleDoree . 5/1/25 ChapelleDoree . 5/1/25

Art After the Fall: Why Creation Still Matters When Commerce Doesn’t

I first encountered Adorno and the Frankfurt School in my sociology courses. Their strict insistence that art must exist apart from reality — standing outside the system so it could critique it — struck me as somewhat ludicrous at the time. It seemed impractical, even a little self-important, to demand that art maintain such absolute purity. After all, artists live in the world like everyone else. Bills need to be paid. Art that speaks to reality surely must also be entangled in it.

But the advent of generative AI, and the impact it has begun to have on the creative world, perhaps reframes that old argument. As AI accelerates the mass production and commodification of artistic work, something interesting happens: the Frankfurt School’s original position starts to seem, if not entirely correct, at least more understandable.

When mass-produced simulacra flood the landscape — cheap, frictionless, and endless — the idea of art as an act of resistance, something fundamentally apart, starts to feel not pretentious, but necessary.

Though I’m hesitant to align fully with any philosophical tradition so deeply rooted in Marxist theory — and wary of the ideological weight that often comes with it — I can't deny that the moment raises an important question:

When art can no longer reliably serve commerce, does it, for the first time in a long time, return to its truest purpose?
Is the act of creation, free from external reward or validation, not a loss, but a kind of liberation?

I thought a lot about that as I worked on The Wake of Expectations and A Pleasant Fiction. Both were created with little to no concern about commercial viability. I’m well aware of how that lack of concern has impacted — and will continue to impact — my ability to profit from these works. But profit was never the primary objective. That’s not a point of pride or a way to place myself above anyone else. It’s simply the truth.

I want to be clear:
I have no antipathy toward professional artists who make a living through their craft. In fact, as reflected through Calvin’s journey in my books, I’m envious of them — envious of anyone who was able to build a life around their creative work. There’s nothing impure or wrong about wanting to survive by doing what you love.

But the inevitable collapse of that market — the difficulty now facing artists across so many fields — isn’t about merit or fairness. It's simply reflective of the same pattern that has played out for blue-collar workers over generations: when new technologies emerge that make what you do no longer a viable commercial alternative, the world doesn’t mourn. It moves on. It’s no different than trying to protect dial-up internet services or printed yellow pages. Clinging to the past, however understandable, eventually becomes a kind of futile act — a last stand against forces too large to resist.

That’s not to say there’s no path forward for creative professionals. Opt-in licensing models — where artists allow their work to be used for AI training under clear terms and compensation — are emerging as a possible solution. In many ways, it's the most viable path left to reward creative people for their contributions. But even that looks suspiciously like the streaming economy that recording artists were pushed into over the past two decades: a model that rewards volume and scale far more than originality or depth. And just as with streaming, it’s likely to become a game of survival for most, rather than thriving.

That reality is instructive. If even the best recording artists could only secure a modest share of value under streaming, then it’s reasonable to assume that visual artists, writers, and creators of all kinds will face similar compromises. Which only reinforces the underlying truth: the purpose of art must return to being the act of creation itself.

At the same time, I firmly support efforts to secure fair compensation for legitimately original work. Artists deserve the right to benefit from what they create, when and where that’s possible. But compensation cannot be the reason we create — or the measure by which we decide whether the creation was worth doing.

I wrote these books because they needed to be written. Because they existed within me and had to be realized in the form they now take. My work exists as it was intended to exist, and while I hope it resonates with the right readers, I’m not concerned about it failing to resonate with the rest. I’m certainly not claiming my work is flawless. It’s not. But it’s mine.

In a way, perhaps that’s the only real test left.
Not whether it sells.
Not whether it trends.
But whether it stands — fully, imperfectly, honestly — as a creation for its own sake.

Javier

ChapelleDoree . 4/30/25 ChapelleDoree . 4/30/25

Rambling to the Robot: Redux

On AI, Voice, and Why the Page Is Still Sacred

One of my earlier blog posts titled “The Proof of Love” reflected on the idea that love isn’t proven by its ease or its beauty, but by its persistence—by the way it endures disappointment, frustration, even pain. It was one of those essays that felt essential to write. Personal, honest, and, in my view, deeply human.

If you’ve been following my work, you know Jake—the sharp, untamed character who cuts to the bone, sometimes recklessly. Jake is loosely inspired, at least in part, by my friend, Cosmo. Like most characters in fiction, he’s a composite—exaggerated, stylized, and shaped by narrative needs. He’s not a stand-in for anyone. He’s a character, filtered through fiction, shaped by theme.

But the creative tension between Calvin and Jake? That’s real. That’s us.

So when Cosmo read “The Proof of Love,” he sent me a one-line message:

Did you write this, or did the robot?

And here’s the thing—he already knew the answer. He could feel it.

Not that I didn’t write it—I did (mostly). Every idea in that essay is mine. In fact, I sent Cosmo the exact prompts I gave the AI: dictated reflections, structured thoughts, thematic throughlines. As I told him, “100% of the ideas are mine. 70% of the writing is mine. 30% is the robot stitching things together.” He didn't doubt my assessment.

But then he said:

I knew it wasn’t all you. It didn’t sound like you.

It didn’t surprise me. It was just Cosmo being Cosmo—a reaffirmation of his artistic purity. The kind of conviction that’s as inflexible as it is admirable.

Even while conceding that the ideas were mine, there was still something in him that recoiled at the very presence of AI in the work. To Cosmo, if the page doesn’t carry the full weight of the author’s voice—unfiltered, unassisted—then something essential has been lost.

We don’t disagree on that principle. We just draw the line in different places.

When it comes to the books, we are in total agreement: the page is sacred.

Which brings me back to this post, and to the title: Rambling to the Robot: Redux.

Because I’ve written about this before. I’ve said, clearly, that I don’t use AI to write my books. I won’t. I can’t. The novels come from a place that can’t be outsourced or co-written by suggestion. They are rooted in emotional authenticity, in memory, in confession and risk. They’re often written as a character (Calvin), and even when they sound like me, they aren’t me. Not entirely. They’re me processed through story.

The blog, though—that’s analysis and commentary. It’s reflection. It’s a place to think out loud. And in that space, AI has become a tool. A helpful, time-saving, idea-organizing tool. It helps me publish more often, stay connected to readers, and keep moving through the thematic echo chamber I’ve built.

Cosmo doesn’t share that comfort. And that’s okay. His discomfort keeps me honest. His purity—his almost suicidal commitment to truth, like Jake—is what makes him invaluable to me. Not just as a friend, but as a creative counterweight.

It’s the same dynamic I wrote into the fiction.

You may notice that the blog sounds different than the books.

That’s not accidental.

That’s process.

In the books, I write as a character. I vanish into voice and structure and memory.

On the blog, I ramble to the robot. I dictate the ideas and I let it help shape the reflection—but not the truth.

If you ever sense a shift between the two—it’s there for a reason.

And if you ever wonder why I don’t let the robot into the books, it’s because I believe that when something is sacred, it should be written with your whole self.

Not just your thoughts.

Not just your ideas.

But your rhythm, your scars, your fingerprints.

Your unmistakable voice.

Javier

ChapelleDoree . 4/29/25 ChapelleDoree . 4/29/25

Learning in the Age of AI: Between Knowledge and Tools

I recently watched a segment on 60 Minutes about DeepMind and Google's latest advances in AI-assisted wearables — glasses paired with an earpiece that can instantly guide you through almost anything, almost like having an incredibly educated personal assistant at your side.

As we watched, my wife raised a simple but powerful question:
"What happens when kids take tests? Won’t they just be able to look at the test and have the glasses tell them the answers?"

At first, it sounds like a cheat. But it’s not that simple.

I told her it reminded me of when calculators were first introduced into math classrooms. At first, they were banned — because solving equations by hand was seen as essential to "real" math. But eventually, schools realized that calculators weren't going away. They pivoted: Rather than reward students for clinging to an obsolete method, they rewarded those who could use the tools wisely.

And that's the world we're heading into now, at an even faster pace.

In The Wake of Expectations, I kept circling around a version of this tension:
How do you look at the past — and honor what is valuable in it — without turning a blind eye to the future?
How do you balance respect for what was with survival in what is coming?

The kid who insists on doing every math problem by hand, refusing to touch a calculator, preserves something valuable — a depth of understanding, an intimacy with the problem. But that kid, for all their noble effort, isn’t going to beat the kid who learns how to use the calculator effectively.

It will be the same with AI.

The student who refuses to engage with AI tools out of stubbornness or fear will lose out — not because they aren’t smart, but because the world will move faster than they can keep up. But the student who only relies on the tools — who becomes completely dependent on AI to think for them — will be just as fragile, in a different— and arguably, worse—way.

I'm advocating for something harder, but more sustainable: A middle path.

You don't want to become John Henry — the folk hero who fought the steam drill with his bare hands and won the battle, but died in the process. You don't want to make yourself a martyr fighting technology. But you also can't surrender entirely, handing over your mind to machines without resistance.

It all comes back, again, to the same core idea as art for art’s sake:

You need to learn, not because it gives you a competitive advantage, but because learning has intrinsic value. Knowledge matters, even if — maybe especially if — the world tells you it doesn’t anymore.

And at the same time, you need to know how to use the tools — because otherwise you won't survive.

Real education, real growth, has to hold both truths at once:

Knowledge for its own sake.
Tool mastery for survival.

If you lose either half, you’re at risk.

If you keep both alive, maybe — just maybe — you can move forward without losing yourself.

Javier

For Further Viewing:
How AI Glasses Could Change Learning (60 Minutes Clip)

ChapelleDoree . 4/28/25 ChapelleDoree . 4/28/25

Why I Keep Talking About AI: A Reflection on Change, Memory, and Creation

My last couple of posts have touched on AI, and the truth is, so much has been happening in that space over the past month that my thoughts have been largely consumed by it.

I’ve built up a bit of a backlog of essays on the topic, and rather than trickling them out over time, I’ve decided to host an AI Week here on the blog — a focused series where I'll share my reflections as both a creator and a consumer of art navigating this changing landscape.

I've made a point to be transparent about my use of AI tools, and to state emphatically where I draw the line: I don’t let AI write my books.
The words in my books are mine. They do not contain AI-generated text.
The text in my books always originates with me, and I decide on the final version.

However, I do find AI to be an extremely useful tool when used ethically and honestly — particularly for brainstorming, research, analysis, editing, and organization — areas where AI can accelerate the creative process without encroaching on it.

I bounce ideas off of it like a beta reader; I consider suggestions from it like a proofreader or copy editor. (And, as I have said in other blog posts, I am more liberal with its use for things like this blog — but NEVER with my books.)

In these contexts, I feel strongly that AI does not compromise authorship any more than spell check, grammar check, or human editorial oversight.

I know there will be differences of opinion on the topic, and some creators may find my use of it too much for their comfort. But I find that discomfort often has a lot to do with fear and misunderstanding. If describing my process can contribute to the conversation around how AI can be used responsibly without compromising human creativity, I believe that's a valuable use of my time.

At the end of the week, I’ll also be sharing an announcement related to my books — one that ties into this ongoing discussion about creativity, technology, and staying human.

I hope you’ll come back each day this week for a new essay. And I hope you find them interesting, elucidating, and maybe even a little entertaining.

Thanks for reading — and welcome to AI Week.

In The Wake of Expectations, I tried to capture a world that’s already slipping into history — a world where human interaction wasn’t yet mediated by iPhones, social media, and the constant connectivity of the internet.
Not to argue that it was better.
Not to indulge in nostalgia for its own sake.
But simply to show what it was — and allow readers to see it side by side with the world they know now, and to decide for themselves what was lost, what was gained, and what might still matter.

That’s a through line not just in the novel, but in how I think about technology more broadly — and why, even as the author of a 1990s coming-of-age story, I keep finding myself talking about AI today.

It’s not a random diversion. It’s part of the same conversation.

The fracture between the generation I depict in Wake and today’s generation is largely technological.
It’s about the smartphone.
It’s about social media.
It’s about how the tools we use reshape how we interact, how we relate, how we understand ourselves and each other.

Twenty years from now, someone else may be writing a novel — or an essay — about how AI reshaped the ways we create, communicate, and connect.
They'll talk about what was lost.
They’ll try to capture what still might be found again.

That’s why I keep returning to these themes.
Because as a creator living through this transition, I’m grappling with it in real time.
And because I see the historical parallel:

The internet changed how we gather information.
The smartphone changed how we interact.
AI will change how we create.

Once new technology arrives, the genie doesn’t go back into the bottle.
Trying to cling to the past in its entirety becomes a futile exercise.

But that doesn’t mean there’s nothing to preserve.

The way we interacted before the iPhone — the depth, the slowness, the presence — still has value.
The creative spark that exists independently of any tool — the spark that wakes you up at night with an idea that demands to exist — still has value.

We can’t stop the future.
But we can carry forward what matters from the past.

That’s the real work.
That’s the thread that ties my reflections on social media, the internet, and AI back to the stories I’m telling.
And it’s why I’ll probably keep talking about these things as long as I’m lucky enough to keep creating.

Because what’s at stake isn’t just how we interact with machines.
It’s how we stay human while doing it.

Javier

ChapelleDoree . 4/21/25 ChapelleDoree . 4/21/25

The Mountain of Garbage Behind Every Spark of AI Creativity

Or: Why Originality Isn’t the Same as Intent

The following is a follow-up to my previous blog post. I really didn’t plan to write about AI again so soon, but new developments seem to happen almost every day, and they impact how human creativity will or won’t continue to be a force in our world. And as a writer, that’s an important distinction to me.

I’ve said before — probably more than once — that AI can’t really create anything original. That it can remix, synthesize, echo, and adapt, but not originate. It can give you the next version of something, but not the first.

But I want to refine that claim, because after watching the 60 Minutes feature on Google DeepMind’s Project Astra, and thinking more about how AI systems generate outputs, I realized something:

AI can create something new.

But it does it the way nature does — not the way people do.

And that difference matters.

AI Originality Works Like Evolution, Not Inspiration

Here’s the model I’m starting to come around to: AI creativity mirrors Darwinian evolution — not artistic genius.

In evolution, organisms mutate randomly. Most mutations are useless. Some are actively harmful. But every once in a while, one shows up that’s useful. And natural selection keeps it around.

AI works the same way:

Generate a bunch of random variations.
Test them.
Keep the ones that “work.”

It’s mutation and selection, not vision and refinement. And like evolution, it's messy, inefficient, and mostly failure. But sometimes, out of that noise, something surprising survives.

That’s how AI gets to originality. Not through taste. Not through intent.

Through volume and filtration.

The Garbage Is the Cost

And that’s the thing most people don’t talk about: how much garbage AI generates on its way to a single good idea.

If you’re using AI to create something new — not just autocomplete a sentence, but to truly break form — you’re going to get reams of nonsense. Broken ideas. Useless variations. Dead ends. And maybe, somewhere in there, a gem.

This is one of the main differences between human creativity and machine creativity.

Humans filter as we create.

AI just creates.

We feel when something is right. Eddie Van Halen picks up a guitar, does something strange, and knows — instantly — that it’s worth exploring. He might not be able to explain why. But the spark is there.

An AI doesn’t have that. It can create a sound. It might even generate something like the next Eddie Van Halen riff. But it has no sense of rightness, no internal signal that says, “This matters.”

Which means we still need a listener. A watcher. A reader.

Someone human to say: this one is good.

The Selection Filter Is Still Human

Even if you train a model on millions of human preferences — on what people liked, clicked, bought, or shared — you’re still building on subjective standards. The AI isn’t evaluating in a vacuum. It’s echoing back what we already decided was good.

And when it comes to truly new things — things that fall outside the training data, that don't yet exist in the world — AI has no basis for judgment. It has no values of its own. No desire. No taste. No purpose.

So even if it stumbles onto something great, it won't know it.

We will. Or we won’t. But either way, it’s still up to us.

Creativity by Mutation Is Also Costly

And there’s another angle to this that most casual observers miss: the energy cost.

Running large language models — especially ones that generate a billion possible outputs in search of one spark of originality — is resource intensive. Data centers, GPUs, electricity — all to produce a mountain of garbage and a single useful result.

Maybe that's worth it in some domains. But it’s not the elegant spark of insight we like to think of when we talk about creativity.

It’s brute force. It’s trial and error on steroids.

It’s evolution — sped up, but still messy and indifferent.

But Could AI Develop a Filter?

Here’s where I want to acknowledge something: maybe one day, AI will develop an internal filter.

Maybe it will learn to assign value in a way that isn't just regurgitating our preferences back to us. Maybe it will develop something akin to intent — a sense of what matters and why.

I don’t see how that would happen right now. I’m not even sure what that would look like.

But I’ve also learned not to speak too confidently about what AI can’t do — because its capabilities are improving exponentially, and the path forward isn’t always visible from here.

So I’m not saying it’s impossible. I’m just not ready to say that it is possible, either.

For now, what we call “good” still requires human judgment. And that judgment is shaped by culture, history, experience — by emotions and meaning that aren’t reducible to data points.

At least, I don’t think they are. I don’t feel like they are.

Even if AI learns to imitate that well, it still needs us to tell it when it got it right.

Because the rules for what’s good don’t come out of a vacuum.

So Can AI Be Creative?

Sure. But let’s be clear about what kind of creativity we’re talking about.

AI can create novelty, just like nature can create new species.

But it doesn’t know what it’s doing.

It doesn’t care if it fails.

It doesn’t feel anything when it stumbles onto something good.

That’s not inspiration. That’s just noise with a filter.

Until AI has its own standards for what is good — and maybe it never will — then it’s still going to rely on us to tell it what’s worth keeping.

And that means, for now, we’re still the spark.

Javier

Further Viewing

If you haven’t seen it yet, the 60 Minutes segment that prompted this follow-up is well worth watching. It features Google DeepMind’s CEO demonstrating Project Astra — an early glimpse into what AI might look like when it starts perceiving and interacting with the world in real time.

You can watch it here:
Google’s AI Future: Project Astra on 60 Minutes

It’s impressive, a little eerie, and raises exactly the kind of questions this post is trying to wrestle with. Let me know what you think.

ChapelleDoree . 4/18/25 ChapelleDoree . 4/18/25

If A.I. Can Tell Your Story, It Was Never Yours to Begin With

We’re entering a new era—fast. And for a lot of writers and artists, that shift feels existential.

Generative AI is now capable of writing novels, painting images, composing music, even mimicking voice and style. The technology isn’t perfect, but it's getting better—fast enough that many creatives are understandably uneasy.

But here’s something I’ve been sitting with lately:
If AI can do what you do—at scale, on demand, and with passable quality—then maybe what you were doing wasn’t as original as you thought.

That’s not a condemnation. It’s just a reckoning.

I’m not saying I’ve cracked the code myself. I’m not claiming to be the exception.
But I am trying to create work that doesn’t fit the mold. Work that can’t be easily slotted into a genre template or backtested formula. In one of my earliest blog posts, I said something that’s become a kind of personal touchstone:

“If you’re not bringing something uniquely you to the story—if it’s not a story that only you can tell—then it’s probably not a story worth telling.”

That’s the standard I’m holding myself to now more than ever. Because here's the reality: most commercially successful art today is formulaic, and that’s exactly what AI is designed to emulate and eventually replace. If you were making a living by hitting familiar beats with competent execution—romance tropes, thriller formulas, genre pastiche—then yes, AI will likely outproduce you.

And maybe that's the part we shouldn't mourn.

As Plato put it: “He who approaches the temple of the Muses without inspiration, in the belief that craftsmanship alone suffices, will remain a bungler, and his presumptuous poetry will be obscured by the songs of the maniacs.”

I first came across that quote through Chuck Palahniuk and later echoed it in The Wake of Expectations. It stayed with me because it gets to the core of this moment: if your work is imitation without rupture, execution without originality, then what you called art was really just craft. And AI is coming for craft.

That doesn’t mean what you made had no value. But if the machine can do it just as well, that value probably lived in the process—not the product. It was about what you got out of creating it—not what anyone else will.

Eddie Van Halen and the Myth of Predictability

Imagine it’s 1970, and someone trains an AI on every piece of recorded music up to that point—classical, jazz, rock, blues. Feed it everything.

It still wouldn’t have come up with Eddie Van Halen.

Because what Eddie did wasn’t just a refinement of existing technique. It was a rupture. A leap.
A quantum moment of creativity—something no algorithm could have anticipated because it wasn’t in the data.

The paragon of unpredictability.

That’s the kind of spark that defines real originality.
And no matter how good generative AI gets, it can’t replicate the first of anything.
It can only replicate the next of something.

What We’re Really Dealing With

So here’s the paradox. We're watching two things happen at once:

The collapse of the derivative creative class—those who were good at doing what others already did, and making a decent living from it. AI will replace much of that. And maybe that’s overdue.
The ongoing exploitation of genius—because even when someone does break the mold, our systems still fail to adequately reward them.

Eddie’s innovation gets absorbed into the algorithm.
The artist becomes the raw material.
And the compensation? It rarely matches the contribution.

That’s the part that demands attention.
That’s what we have to fight to protect—not just creativity, but the value of the catalyst.

Not a Stand—A Surrender

Let’s make one thing clear: AI isn’t falling short of some idealized human standard.
And the real concern isn’t that it’s not good enough yet—as if it’s on an inevitable path to replacing us as artists or thinkers.

The truth is: that’s never what the model was designed to do.
It’s not a shortcoming—it’s a difference in kind.

AI is built to recognize and reproduce patterns, to synthesize from existing data, to generate variations of what already works. It’s an incredible tool for that purpose. But it’s not working its way toward originality—it’s working its way toward efficiency. And that’s a different game entirely.

So if you’re afraid the machine is just one version away from doing what you do, ask yourself: What exactly is it that you do?
Because if your work is built on predictability, yes, it might be replaceable.
But if your work exists to disrupt the pattern—to offer something the system never saw coming—then you’re not competing with the machine at all.

And if you're still debating whether to engage with AI—stop.

Refusing to engage with AI isn’t a stand. It’s a surrender.
You don’t protect your humanity by hiding from the machine.
You protect it by doing what the machine can’t.

Where the Soul Lives

Let’s be honest: the audience has always supplied the soul.
We bring our own memories, emotions, and meanings to whatever we consume—whether it’s a masterpiece or a mass-produced artifact. That part doesn’t change.

People fall in love with inanimate plastic.
They attach deep meaning to a catchy song because it played at the right moment in their lives.
They cry at movies built from clichés.

So it’s not that AI-generated content can’t serve as a peg for emotional resonance. It absolutely can. And it will.

But someone still has to break the pattern.
Someone still has to offer the unexpected, the impossible, the new.

AI can replicate the familiar.
But only a human can create the rupture the machine didn’t see coming.

The Reason to Keep Going

There’s still work to do.
The debate over how to protect that catalyst—the unpredictable spark of originality—is far from settled.
Because it’s not just about legislation.
Everyone can agree that human creativity needs to be protected, and still nothing will change.
It’s about the reality of enforcement.
It’s about whether human creativity will even get the chance to breathe before the machine swallows it whole.

And yes—that’s the hard question.
But that’s a topic for another post.

And I believe—
no, I know—
there’s still something the machine can’t do.

It can generate content, but it can’t create the first spark.
It can remix meaning, but it can’t make the leap.

That’s the reason to keep telling the story.

Not because it’s safe.
Not because it’s profitable.
But because it’s human.

And for now—and always—only we can do that.

Javier

For Further Viewing:
🎥 How AI Models Steal Creative Work — and What to Do About It
Ed Newton-Rex | TED Talk
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U9d0p96N1iw

ChapelleDoree . 4/15/25 ChapelleDoree . 4/15/25

Some important updates…

Deviating from the usual thematic reflections today to share some important news (and, yes, a little humble bragging)…

📘 The Wake of Expectations received its first editorial review earlier this month from The International Review of Books, earning the IRB’s Badge of Achievement.

Here are a few highlights from the review:

“This is a highly original and engaging journey into the life of one (seemingly average?) young man.”
“...raw and honest in a way that’s hard to look away from.”
“...a poignant meditation on adolescence, identity, and the often-painful process of growing up.”
“...the story resonates with clarity and meaning—and that, perhaps, is the clearest indication that it is a work of real merit.”

👉 Read the full review here.

🔥 On top of that, The Wake of Expectations was just named a winner of the Firebird Book Awards in the Coming-of-Age category.
👉 See the full list of winners here.

🎉 And finally:
A Pleasant Fiction: A Novelistic Memoir—the sequel of sorts to The Wake of Expectations—is now available for pre-order on Amazon. Official release date is July 1, 2025.

👉 Click here to view the Amazon listing.

Huge thanks to the always excellent team at Miblart, who also designed the cover for Wake.

Javier

On the Garden of Wake, the Bloom of Fiction, and the Companion That Follows

Further Reading

Or: Why Calvin Sometimes Surprises Me

Further Viewing / Listening:

The full transcript of “Davona’s Literary Hour” is presented below:

Welcome to Real Talk with Logan. Episode: “Dudes Feel Things Too: The Wake of Expectations and the Return of Messy Fiction” with special guest: Javier De Lucia

What The Wake of Expectations and A Pleasant Fiction might mean for Gen X

What These Books Capture About Gen X

It’s a Love Letter and an Autopsy

Where Do These Books Fit in the Gen X Canon?

So Could These Books Be Our On the Road?

Further Reading & Viewing: A Gen X Coming-of-Age Canon

⚠️ Spoiler Warning: This post discusses key emotional themes and character developments in The Wake of Expectations, including material from later sections of the book. While it avoids direct plot spoilers, it may affect how you experience the story if you haven't read it yet.

On Ferris Bueller, Heathers, and Where My Work Fits In

⚠️ Spoiler Warning: This post contains spoilers for The Wake of Expectations, including major plot developments and character arcs.

Comprehensive Analysis of Javier De Lucia's Works

The Wake of Expectations

Holistic Evaluation

Literary Strengths

Critical Observations

Overall Reception

A Pleasant Fiction

Holistic Evaluation

Literary Strengths

Critical Observations

Overall Reception

Javier De Lucia as a Writer

Artistic Development

Distinctive Literary Qualities

Critical Standing

Overall Assessment

⚠️ Spoiler Warning: This post contains major themes and story developments from The Wake of Expectations and A Pleasant Fiction. If you haven’t read both books, proceed with caution.

What Generative AI Is Good For in Creative Work

The Line Between AI-Assisted and AI-Generated

Empathy and the Responsibility to Protect Others' Work

Giving It Away as a Defense Against Exploitation

Seeing the Problem Clearly

Staying Human in the Creative Process

On AI, Voice, and Why the Page Is Still Sacred

For Further Viewing:How AI Glasses Could Change Learning (60 Minutes Clip)

Or: Why Originality Isn’t the Same as Intent

AI Originality Works Like Evolution, Not Inspiration

The Garbage Is the Cost

The Selection Filter Is Still Human

Creativity by Mutation Is Also Costly

But Could AI Develop a Filter?

So Can AI Be Creative?

Further Viewing

Eddie Van Halen and the Myth of Predictability

What We’re Really Dealing With

Not a Stand—A Surrender

Where the Soul Lives

The Reason to Keep Going

For Further Viewing:🎥 How AI Models Steal Creative Work — and What to Do About ItEd Newton-Rex | TED Talkhttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U9d0p96N1iw

Chapelle Dorée Publishing, LLC

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For Further Viewing:
How AI Glasses Could Change Learning (60 Minutes Clip)

For Further Viewing:
🎥 How AI Models Steal Creative Work — and What to Do About It
Ed Newton-Rex | TED Talk
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U9d0p96N1iw