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

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