An Appreciation of The Debut (2000): A Coming-of-Age Film That Deserves More Recognition

When discussing essential coming-of-age films from the late 1990s and early 2000s, The Debut (2000), directed by Gene Cajayon, often gets overlooked. It didn’t have the mainstream reach of American Pie, 10 Things I Hate About You, or Boyz n the Hood, but for Filipino Americans, The Debut is a landmark film—one that speaks directly to the experience of second-generation immigrants navigating cultural identity, familial expectations, and personal aspirations.

At its core, The Debut is a deeply personal story about Ben Mercado, a Filipino-American teenager torn between the future his father envisions for him and the artistic passion he wants to pursue. Ben’s father, like many immigrant parents, sees medicine as a path to stability and success, while Ben dreams of art school. But the tension of the film extends beyond career choices—it’s about identity. Ben is embarrassed by his Filipino heritage and wants to fit in with his white friends, keeping his cultural background at arm’s length. Over the course of the film, through experiences at a family party (the titular debut), confrontations with his father, and interactions with a Filipino community he’s tried to avoid, Ben begins to reconcile the different facets of his identity.

For many Fil-Ams, The Debut was the first time we saw a film that truly reflected our own struggles on screen. The pressures of honoring your parents' sacrifices while forging your own path. The quiet shame of feeling like an outsider in both American and Filipino spaces. The gradual realization that what you once rejected about your heritage may, in fact, be an essential part of who you are.

I didn’t see The Debut until I had already written about half of what would eventually become The Wake of Expectations. It didn’t inspire me so much as embolden me. Seeing this film reaffirmed the importance of telling stories about identity and belonging in a way that doesn’t pander to outside perspectives but instead speaks to the people who know these struggles firsthand. It reinforced my belief that these narratives—our narratives—matter.

While The Wake of Expectations is not primarily about ethnic identity in the way The Debut is, there are elements of it present, particularly in Chapter 18 and the chapters that follow about Lolo. But the aspect of The Debut that resonated most with me is its portrayal of a father with a dream that had to be abandoned out of necessity. Ben’s father once dreamed of being a musician but had to give it up to provide for his family. That sacrifice shapes his worldview—he believes security and success should take precedence over dreams, and he wants his son to have an easier life than he did.

This dynamic is echoed in The Wake of Expectations, albeit in a different way. Calvin’s father once dreamed of attending Chapelle Dorée, but his family couldn’t afford it. Instead, he had to move back home and work to help out financially. His dream wasn’t about music, but about education and opportunity, and he wants his son to succeed where he failed. Similarly, Ben has a scholarship to be pre-med at a prestigious school, and to his father, it seems like the obvious choice. Why would he throw away such an opportunity? To his father, choosing art over medicine is a betrayal—not just of expectations, but of common sense. But for Ben, choosing medicine over art would be a betrayal of himself. In a poignant irony, Ben wants to be an artist—just like his father once wanted to be a musician. What his father fails to see is that his son’s struggle is a reflection of his own.

Calvin’s situation differs in that his father does not want the opposite for him—he wants the same thing he once wanted for himself. Yet, both fathers push their sons toward a path they believe will secure their futures, and in both cases, their sons want something different: the realization of their artistic ambitions, even if it means taking the harder road.

If you’ve seen The Debut and connected with it, I believe you may find something in The Wake of Expectations that resonates with you as well. And if you haven’t seen The Debut, I urge you to seek it out. It’s a film that deserves to be remembered, discussed, and celebrated. It may not have been a box-office juggernaut, but for those of us who grew up feeling like we had to choose between our American and Filipino identities, The Debut remains essential viewing.

Javier

© 2025 Chapelle Dorée Publishing, LLC. All rights reserved. This content may not be reproduced, distributed, or modified without permission.

Drawing with Words: How John Byrne’s Backgrounds Influence My Writing

John Byrne is my favorite comic book artist of all time. Along with George Pérez, he shaped my appreciation for visual storytelling, and his influence extends beyond comics into my own writing.

One of the frequent criticisms of Byrne’s work is that he didn’t spend much time drawing backgrounds. Byrne himself pushed back against this notion, emphasizing that he drew what was necessary to achieve whatever effect he wanted. His focus was on clarity, action, and storytelling, ensuring that the reader’s eye was always where it needed to be: on the characters, the drama, and the momentum of the scene. He could incorporate more background information to slow the reader down or omit it to pick up the pace. At times, Byrne argued, backgrounds can simply be a distraction.

📌 (For example: Byrne’s own comments on backgrounds)

Like much of Byrne’s art, my writing prioritizes foreground action—the conversations between characters, the interpersonal dynamics, the tensions simmering beneath the surface. My descriptions of setting exist to support those elements, not to overshadow them.

Yet, when running my manuscript through automated editing software like AutoCrit, it frequently criticized my lack of setting descriptions, suggesting that I should provide more detail about the characters' physical surroundings. But in other instances, it flagged what it deemed to be mundane details—objects, actions, or brief observations—as unnecessary distractions.

The Problem? Those details were anything but unnecessary.

Just as Byrne strategically decided which background elements to include, I choose which descriptions to highlight in my prose. Sometimes I include mundane details because I want the reader to slow down. Sometimes I provide a tedious description because I want the reader to feel the tedium. If a list of items feels overwhelming, it’s because I want the reader to feel overwhelmed. Some details may seem trivial to an algorithm, but they serve a purpose—whether to reveal something about a character, establish a tone, or subtly reinforce a theme. AI tools, for all their utility, cannot distinguish between unintentional omission and deliberate minimalism; between filler and suffocating detail to create an effect.

The irony is that Byrne has, at times, faced a similar type of criticism from actual human fans. Some readers saw a lack of backgrounds and assumed it was laziness, rather than an artist making conscious storytelling choices. But Byrne knew exactly what he was doing. He knew what mattered.

(To be fair, Byrne did admit that the allegation of a lack of backgrounds was occasionally true, but almost never where or when the accusation was being leveled!)

And that’s how I approach writing. I’m not trying to describe every leaf on every tree. I’m telling the story I want to tell, in the way I want to tell it. It doesn’t mean I’m perfect. I don’t always make the right choices. But they are choices, not accidental omissions.

John Byrne, the artist, told the story he wanted with pictures. I’m telling the story I want to with words.

And I can only hope I’m doing anywhere near as good a job with my words as he did with his drawings.

(I should note that John Byrne is an accomplished writer, as well.)

Javier

© 2025 Chapelle Dorée Publishing, LLC. All rights reserved. This content may not be reproduced, distributed, or modified without permission.

Be the Dog

I decided to try something a little different today. I was doing my “Rambing to the Robot” routine, discussing some pretty heavy themes in preparation of a more “serious” blog post and my dog came and sat next to me. While contemplating all the existential crises that challenge me, I looked down at him, and he just seemed happy to be sitting there beside me. Like that cartoon of the man thinking about all the things he has to do, while the dog sitting next to him is just thinking about sitting next to him.

And I thought—I would probably be happier if I were more like my dog.

He’s about ten. As far as I can tell, he’s pretty healthy, if a little overweight (he really does lead a good life.) And the reality is that he probably doesn’t have a lot of time left, at least as humans measure it. Four or five years? That’s not a lot of time.

But he doesn’t know that.

And it’s more than simply ignorance being bliss. He’s just in the moment.

And I thought—I’d really like to eat a steak. Or lobster. Or steak and lobster. And why shouldn’t I? (Other than my cholesterol).

The dog would eat the steak.

Be the dog.

Whenever I start to get cold feet about pursuing this author thing, I read or listen to Bukowski’s All the Way. And since I was already rambling to the robot, I said—hey robot, be the dog, eat the steak. Let’s write a poem in the style of Bukowski on that theme.

And this is what we came up with…

Be the Dog

don’t wait for permission,

don’t sit there wondering if it’s the right time,

don’t overthink,

don’t hesitate.

if the steak is on the plate,

eat it.

if the sun is shining,

run.

if there’s love in reach,

take it.

because one day the steak will be gone,

the legs will be slow,

the love will dry up,

and the only thing left will be

the weight of all the things

you didn’t do.

don’t be the fool waiting for meaning.

don’t be the coward waiting for the right moment.

don’t be the poor bastard who dies with a full plate,

a restless heart,

and nothing but regret.

be the dog.

eat the steak.

die happy.

(Note: Grammarly detects no plagiarism and 0% AI content.)

I know some of y’all have mixed feelings about the AI thing. I do, too. But again, this wasn’t serious work. This was just for fun.

I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did.

Until next time—Be the dog.

Javier

© 2025 Chapelle Dorée Publishing, LLC. All rights reserved. This content may not be reproduced, distributed, or modified without permission.

What Is Missing and Why It’s Needed

For years, a certain kind of novel has been absent from bookstore shelves—contemporary literary fiction that speaks directly to men, particularly young men. Kristin McTiernan, an author and professional editor, recently made this exact observation on her YouTube channel, The Nonsense-Free Editor. She pointed out that while publishers cater to women with clearly defined categories like "women’s fiction," there’s no equivalent space for men. Instead, men’s reading habits are pushed into genre fiction—military sci-fi, fantasy, thrillers, or crime novels.

But what if a man just wants to read about life as he knows it? About friendships, relationships, the struggle to understand himself? Where are the books that explore love, heartbreak, and personal growth from an honest, male perspective?

That kind of book exists, but you have to look for it.

A Novel That Fills the Gap

I didn’t set out to write The Wake of Expectations as an answer to McTiernan’s question. I didn’t write it because I saw a market opportunity or because I thought men needed a particular kind of book. I wrote it because it was the only way to tell this story honestly. The only way I could tell it. But after hearing McTiernan’s argument, I realize my book might be exactly what she’s talking about.

The Wake of Expectations is literary fiction, not genre fiction. It’s about a young man navigating friendships, love, loss, and self-discovery. It doesn’t follow a chosen one on an epic quest. There’s no murder mystery to solve. It’s just life—the way life actually unfolds, with all of its humor, heartbreak, and uncertainty.

And that kind of story matters.

McTiernan’s video resonated with me because she wasn’t just making a publishing industry critique—she was making a case for why men need these kinds of stories.

Why Set It in the 1990s? Because It Had to Be.

The Wake of Expectations isn’t just contemporary fiction—it’s also a period piece, set in the mid-1990s. And that setting isn’t just aesthetic. It’s essential.

It had to take place at a time when:

• Friendships happened in person. You didn’t have the option of disappearing into a group chat or lurking on social media. If you wanted to spend time with someone, you had to show up.

• Dating required real risk. If you wanted to ask someone out, you had to pick up the phone, call their house, and potentially talk to their parents first. There was no "soft rejection" through a left swipe. You either put yourself out there, or you didn’t.

• Conversations weren’t filtered through screens. When Calvin sits in a diner talking with friends, there are no distractions—just eye contact, body language, and the full weight of being present in the moment.

These things didn’t just make life different. They made relationships different.

Which raises a bigger question: If contemporary men’s fiction is disappearing, is it only because of market forces—or because young men today simply don’t relate to these kinds of interactions anymore?

Ryan Clark’s Perspective: The Fear of Real Rejection

Former NFL player Ryan Clark recently posted a video about how young men today struggle with real-world social interactions. He described the old-school way of "hollerin’ at a girl"—having to call her house, talk to her mother, and earn the right to speak to her. He talked about how exhilarating it was when that process worked.

But today? He says young men avoid this entirely. They don’t want to take the risk. Dating apps and social media give them a shield. If a girl rejects them online, they can convince themselves she rejected a profile, not them.

And that’s a problem. Because it means young men aren’t just losing the skills to approach women—they’re losing the experiences that build confidence, resilience, and emotional intelligence.

The same goes for friendships. If most of your interactions happen online, do you ever really experience the depth of connection that happens when you laugh, fight, and figure life out together in real time?

This isn’t about nostalgia. It’s about contrast.

Male Friendships: Real, Messy, and Worth Writing About

McTiernan made another point that resonated: fiction doesn’t explore male friendships enough.

This is something The Wake of Expectations leans into fully. Calvin has deep, complicated relationships with two key characters—Jake and Ben—but those friendships couldn’t be more different.

Jake is the friend who challenges Calvin. He’s sharp, unfiltered, and constantly forces Calvin to see things he’d rather ignore. There’s humor, rivalry, and brutal honesty.

Ben represents something else—a different kind of emotional depth and support, one that isn’t based on teasing or one-upmanship (though they do tease each other), but on something more layered and personal.

Male friendships aren’t one-size-fits-all. Some are built on shared experiences and tough love. Others carry a quiet emotional undercurrent. But those bonds matter, and literary fiction is one of the only places where they can be explored with the nuance they deserve.

Not a Blueprint—Just a Mirror

There’s one more thing I need to say about The Wake of Expectations.

I’m not presenting Calvin as a role model. He makes mistakes—a lot of them. It’s kind of the point of the story.

The book doesn’t tell readers what to think. It just shows Calvin’s life, choices, and consequences. The reader can examine them, relate to them, disagree with them—and take whatever lessons they need from it.

That’s what good literary fiction does. It doesn’t preach, and it doesn’t try to give you a perfect hero. It just holds up the mirror and invites you to look.

Why This Kind of Fiction Matters

So why does all of this matter?

Because stories shape us. Because men deserve books that reflect their experiences—not just the fantasy of who they could be, but the reality of who they are, who they’ve been, and who they’re becoming.

That’s what’s missing. And that’s why it’s needed.

Maybe that’s what a friend meant when she told me: "Your book will help people."

At the time, I wasn’t sure what she meant. But now, I think I understand.

Maybe a book like this helps just by existing. By giving men—especially young men—a chance to see their lives on the page.

By showing them what friendships, love, and identity looked like when everything wasn’t filtered through a screen.

Not to tell them that things were better. Just to show them how things were.

And let them decide for themselves.

Javier

© 2025 Chapelle Dorée Publishing, LLC. All rights reserved. This content may not be reproduced, distributed, or modified without permission.

Further Reading & References

• The Nonsense-Free Editor on the Death of Men’s Fiction: Watch Kristin McTiernan’s video

• Ryan Clark’s Comments on Modern Dating & Male Confidence: Watch his video on Facebook

Why Am I Like This? The Stories That Shaped Gen X (And Me)

Every generation has its defining stories—the ones that didn’t just entertain but shaped how they saw the world. For Gen X, storytelling wasn’t just an influence; it was a survival tool. We were the generation that raised itself, watching movies we probably shouldn’t have (or at least, before we should have), figuring life out through trial and error, and learning to laugh at our own mistakes.

In The Wake of Expectations, Enrique asks Cal, "Why are you like that?" That’s the question I’m answering here—not just for myself, but for my whole generation. Why is my humor like this? Why do I talk like this? Why do I think that’s funny? The answer is in the stories we grew up with—the ones that encouraged us to take risks, to laugh at the absurdity of life, and to find our place in the world through sheer experience.

The Movies That Defined Us: Risk, Friendship, and Finding Your People

We didn’t have the internet. We had HBO. That was where we learned our colorful language, then took it out to the playground to share with our friends. Late-night stand-up specials, unfiltered movies, and shows that weren’t afraid to push boundaries gave us an early education in comedy, sarcasm, and the kind of storytelling that didn’t feel watered down. HBO wasn’t just entertainment—it was cultural currency, a secret club where you learned things that were just a little too raw (yes, that’s an Eddie Murphy pun) for primetime television.

The coming-of-age movies we watched as kids weren’t about introspective loners—they were about groups of kids figuring life out together. Stand By Me. The Goonies. The Breakfast Club. Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. These weren’t movies about neatly packaged moral lessons. They were about navigating life with your friends, screwing up together, and coming out better for it.

And when it came to comedy, our generation grew up on simpler raunchy fare—movies like Porky’s and Private School. These films weren’t deep (and, sure, they contain problematic elements by today’s standards), but they encouraged a certain reckless, rebellious spirit. They didn’t take themselves seriously, and they didn’t ask us to, either.

But when our generation started making movies, we added heart to the mix. The raunchy comedies of the late ‘90s and early 2000s—movies like Clerks, American Pie, and Superbad—still had the crude humor, but they also had characters you actually cared about. That’s what we brought to the table. We took the stupid humor of our youth and layered it with something real.

The Importance of Laughing at Yourself

One thing that defined our generation was the ability to laugh at our own screw-ups. If you did something dumb, your friends didn’t cancel you—they roasted you. That was part of the love. (To be clear, I’m not excusing intentionally harmful behavior. But not every mistake is a tragedy and not every transgression deserves a death sentence.)

Laughter was how we processed failure, embarrassment, and growing up. And yeah, sometimes it was rough. That just meant you had to grow a thicker skin. That wasn’t a bad thing. Sometimes your friends could cross the line—and sometimes you would, too. That’s when we would push back. That’s how everyone learned where the line was. And you had to have a sense of humor about tripping over it. If you could laugh at yourself, you could forgive yourself and move forward. It was never about being cruel—it was about resilience. The understanding that you weren’t perfect, and that was okay.

The Writers Who Showed Me I Could Say It Out Loud

I didn’t start with books. I started with movies, TV, and comics. I’d like to think my work shares some DNA with The Catcher in the Rye because it was a major influence—but I didn’t actually read Salinger until after I wrote my first draft. No, the writers came later. Palahniuk and Bukowski weren’t just influences, they were the ones who gave me permission to say the things I didn’t have the courage to say before. And that was an important step. It’s one thing to have something to say—it’s another to have the balls to say it. The writers…they helped me grow a pair.

Kevin Smith’s dialogue—the way people actually talk—showed me that you could be real and still be hilarious. Salinger’s disillusionment, Bukowski’s rawness, Palahniuk’s chaos—they weren’t about shock value for the sake of it. They were about cutting through the bullshit and getting to something real. That’s what made them powerful.

Why This Kind of Storytelling Still Matters

This isn’t just Gen X nostalgia—it’s about the value of taking risks, learning from mistakes, and having the ability to laugh at yourself. That kind of storytelling still has something to offer because it reminds us that:

• Adventure, friendship, and real human connection matter.

• Failure isn’t the end—it’s the process.

• The best moments in life aren’t the perfect ones, but the ridiculous, messy, unexpected ones.

• Finding humor in dark things isn’t just important—it’s necessary.

Because there will always be darkness. There will always be challenges. And this is how you persevere: laughing alongside others on the journey.

Conclusion: Why I Write the Way I Do

I write books now, but my storytelling DNA comes from movies, TV, and comics first.

The stories that shaped me taught me that it’s not just okay to be messy, awkward, and to screw up—it’s absolutely essential to the human condition.

So when someone asks, "Why are you like that?"—this is the answer. The stories I grew up on didn’t just entertain me. They made me. And if I’m lucky, the stories I write might do the same for someone else.

Javier

© 2025 Chapelle Dorée Publishing, LLC. All rights reserved. This content may not be reproduced, distributed, or modified without permission.

The Icons of My Youth: Bruce Lee and Eddie Van Halen

Growing up, two of my biggest heroes were Bruce Lee and Eddie Van Halen. They represented two things I loved—martial arts and 80s rock. They were innovators, originals, the best at what they did. Bruce Lee revolutionized martial arts not just in practice but in philosophy, breaking down barriers and changing the way the world viewed combat sports. Eddie Van Halen redefined what was possible on the guitar, blending classical precision with rock energy to create something entirely new. They weren’t just great at their craft; they changed the game.

Eddie Van Halen even makes a brief appearance in my book—not directly, but Calvin (the protagonist) and Ilse attend a Van Halen concert, and there he is, on stage, larger than life. Bruce Lee doesn’t appear in The Wake of Expectations (he does in the upcoming sequel), but his son Brandon gets a mention. You’ll find it when you find it.

Identity and Discovery

One of the major themes of The Wake of Expectations—and something I explore in depth in Chapter 18—is identity. Calvin, like me, is of mixed-race background. Half Asian, half white. It can be a complicated thing to navigate at times, and it’s something that naturally became a part of my storytelling. But it’s also something I didn’t always think about when I was younger.

Take Bruce Lee. As a kid, I just thought he was Chinese. It wasn’t until much later that I learned he was a quarter European (Dutch and/or German). Mixed race.  Like Calvin. Like me. Eddie Van Halen? I always assumed he was just a Dutch kid who moved to California. Turns out his mother was half Indonesian. Like Bruce, like me, he was part Asian, part white.

But here’s the thing—when I was 14, I didn’t admire them because of that. I didn’t even know. I just admired them because they were great. Great at stuff that I loved.

Representation vs. Inspiration

Representation matters. Seeing people who look like you or share your background can be inspiring, especially when you’re young and searching for role models. But that’s not why Bruce Lee and Eddie Van Halen were my heroes. That’s not why I admired Bo Jackson, either. Bo was one of my favorite athletes growing up, and he was neither white nor Asian. He was just awesome.

I didn’t see them as representatives of a race—I saw them as great at what they did. I wanted to be great too.

That’s what drew me to them. Not their backgrounds, but their brilliance.

And whether they were of a different race or I just didn’t know that we were similar, I could see myself in them. Or, at least, I wanted to.  

What We Take from Our Heroes

It’s only in hindsight that I can appreciate the connection, that I can recognize the significance that two of my childhood heroes shared a mixed background similar to mine. I actually thought there weren’t any role models like that back then. No one “like me.” But there they were, right in front of me, the whole time. And it didn’t matter. I didn’t know and I admired them anyway. I wanted to be like them. It’s interesting—maybe even ironic—but it still doesn’t really matter. What mattered was their excellence, their innovation, their refusal to be anything less than extraordinary.

Now, Calvin…he’s not really great at anything. But he’s human. Like me. Like Eddie Van Halen. Like Bruce Lee.

And he’s trying his best to get through life. And trying to connect with the people around him. Like you, too, probably.

And his experience probably resonates more if you’re a musician. Or a writer. Or you didn’t always agree with your parents. Or a girl (or a boy) you liked didn’t like you back.

And his story might mean a little more to you if you’re Filipino. Or Irish.

But you don’t have to be half Asian or half white to see yourself in him.

You don’t even have to be great.

Javier

© 2025 Chapelle Dorée Publishing, LLC. All rights reserved. This content may not be reproduced, distributed, or modified without permission.

Rambling to the Robot: How I Use (and Don’t Use) AI in My Writing Process

As I move into the final stages of copyediting my manuscript, preparing to submit it to the copyright office, upload it to KDP, and sending out ARCs, I’ve been thinking about the role AI plays in my writing process. Recently, the U.S. Copyright Office released guidance on how it will handle AI-generated content, reinforcing that only works with substantial human contribution qualify for copyright (see link below). That got me reflecting on how I use AI—not for writing my books, but in ways that assist me in editing, structuring, and analyzing my work.

And in the interest of full transparency, I wanted to share exactly how I use AI—not just for my books, but for blog posts like this one.

I Do Not Use AI to Write My Books

This is the most important thing I want my readers to understand: My novels are my words, my voice, and my creative effort. Every sentence, every paragraph, every story arc is mine. AI does not generate text that ends up in my books. However, like many writers, I use tools to refine my work. Just as I rely on AutoCrit, ProWritingAid, and Grammarly, I also use AI for fine-tuning, restructuring, and reviewing grammar.

One example is a game I play with ChatGPT called “Is the That Necessary?” where I paste sentences containing the word that and ask whether I can remove it. It’s a way to tighten my prose and ensure clarity. AI helps with these small refinements, but the creative core—characters, themes, dialogue, narrative choices—comes entirely from me and my experiences.

Similarly, if I need to rename a character, I might use AI to generate surname suggestions (e.g., "Give me an Italian surname with a similar feel to Capriati"). Or, when fictionalizing locations, I might ask for plausible town names that would fit within Southwest Connecticut...or Belgium. I might query it about the distance between two locations to see if they make sense for a storyline. But at no point does AI create the world—I use it as a tool, the same way I might browse a baby name website or consult a map.

Using AI for Literary Analysis

Another way I use AI in conjunction with my writing is for analyzing my own work. I already have strong ideas about the themes in my books, but AI can help confirm whether those themes are coming across clearly. Sometimes, it even identifies themes I didn’t consciously notice in my first drafts.

This doesn’t change what I’m writing, but it’s an interesting tool for self-reflection—almost like bouncing ideas off a beta reader. The difference is that this beta reader is hyper-analytical, extremely well-read, and capable of bringing in external literary and philosophical references that I wouldn’t typically expect from another person. It’s like having a conversation with a highly educated critic who has instant access to a vast knowledge base.

That’s an advantage AI offers—not in creating ideas, but in helping refine and articulate them.

And also, I like to talk about my books. Sometimes so much so that my friends get tired of hearing about them. Or they just have other things in their own lives that require their attention, and they don't have time to listen. The robot never has other plans.

How I Use AI for Blog Posts

For blog posts, I use AI a little more liberally—kind of like what I’m doing right now. I throw out a bunch of ideas, rambling my thoughts into the chat, and then AI helps me structure them into something coherent. From there, I go in and refine the text, making sure it still sounds like me.

That’s why I’ve decided to call this process “Rambling to the Robot.” It captures exactly what’s happening—I talk (or type) through my ideas, AI helps me organize them, and then I take over again to polish the final draft. AI is an assistant, not a writer.

If you notice a slight difference in my voice between my books and my blog posts, there are two reasons for that. First, in my books, I’m writing as a character. Even though my novels are deeply personal, they are still fiction, and every sentence is deliberately crafted to match that voice. In contrast, my blog posts are much more like emails I’m writing to my community—more informal, conversational, and direct.

The second reason is that I’m using AI differently in these contexts. While my books require meticulous crafting, my blog posts are about efficiency and productivity. AI allows me to communicate more frequently without having to spend as much time polishing every sentence. That said, I’m not simply prompting AI to “write an essay.” I’m dictating a series of ideas, and then I ask AI to help clean it up—just like an assistant would. I always do a final round of editing to ensure it still sounds like me.

Verifying Human Authorship: The Grammarly Test

One additional step I take to maintain a human voice and make sure everything is on the up and up is to run my blog posts through Grammarly’s AI detection and plagiarism tools. This isn’t because I doubt my own authorship—it’s just a way to validate that my process aligns with what I’m saying here. (And with AI, you always want to be careful that it isn't inadvertently stealing from another author's work.)

Even when writing completely from scratch, a human author’s work can still get flagged for AI-generated content, especially if it follows a formal structure or uses phrasing that AI models recognize as common. But in my experience, if AI detection is below 20%, that’s a strong indicator that a human was behind the wheel.

I’ve tested this with my own raw writing, and even when I write something without AI assistance, there are often small percentages flagged—sometimes 10%, sometimes 15%. That doesn’t mean AI wrote it; it just means AI could have written something similar. However, if a piece scores 40%, 50%, or higher, that’s a sign that AI played a more significant role in generating the text. I’m not comfortable with that.

For me, keeping that AI detection score under 20% aligns with my personal commitment: AI helps me structure my blog posts, but it does not write them for me. The same goes for my novels, where AI’s role is even more limited—strictly in editing and analysis, never in storytelling or prose creation.

Why This Matters

With all the conversations about AI-generated content, I think it’s important to be upfront about how AI plays a role in my process. Transparency matters, especially as readers, writers, and the publishing industry navigate the ethical and legal questions surrounding AI’s use in creative work.

For me, the bottom line is this: my books are my own. I want my readers to rest assured that when they invest their money, time and energy into reading my books, they are getting the real deal—not a cheap knockoff. When it comes to blog posts like this, I use AI to assist in structuring my ideas—but the original thoughts, the final voice, and the final message, are always mine.

So, if you ever wonder how much AI is involved in my work, the answer is simple: I may be Rambling to the Robot, but in the end, I’m always the one telling the story.

Javier

Note: The final version of this blog post generated by ChatGPT (based on the author’s dictated comments) received a Grammarly AI detection score of 15%. It took approximately 20 minutes to draft. After final edits by the author (which took about an hour), no AI text was detected.

US Copyright Office Report on Copyrightability: Copyright and Artificial Intelligence, Part 2 Copyrightability Report

© 2025 Chapelle Dorée Publishing, LLC. All rights reserved. This content may not be reproduced, distributed, or modified without permission.

Why Do We Write?

Writers are often told, “Write what you know.” But the truth is, we often come to know ourselves through what we write. Writing isn’t just about expressing what’s already clear to us—it’s a way of uncovering the hidden layers of who we are.

George R.R. Martin once said, “If you need security, this is not the profession for you.” If you're doing it to make money, or to be famous, there are easier ways. Writing is a risk—in more ways than one—a leap into the unknown. We don’t write because it’s safe; we write because we can’t not write. It’s an act of honest expression, a way of saying, “This is what I stand for. This is who I am.” But it’s also a way of questioning, “Who am I?” and finding the answer through your dialogue with the page.

Bruce Lee described martial arts as a means of honestly expressing oneself—of putting your intent into the world through movement. Writing works in a similar way, albeit with words: it allows us to share ourselves with others, to foster connection and empathy. In both cases, self-expression is an act of self-revelation—it allows us to articulate and understand our limitations and identities. In the process, we come face-to-face with our fallibility. And when we embrace that, we begin to forgive—not just others, but ourselves.

The beauty of writing is that the page is always there to listen. It’s a confessional, a space where we can say the things we’re not ready to say out loud. You don’t have to share everything you write, but when you’re a writer, you feel compelled to share everything with the page. The act of writing itself becomes a dialogue with yourself, a place to confront your truth and find clarity.

So why do we write? Because the act of putting words on the page brings order to chaos. It transforms vague thoughts into defined truths and helps us make sense of our imperfections. Writing begins as “write what you know,” but it ends with “know what you write.”

Javier

© 2025 Chapelle Dorée Publishing, LLC. All rights reserved. This content may not be reproduced, distributed, or modified without permission.

Who Are You to Write a Book?

It’s the question that stops many writers in their tracks. The sheer hubris of it, right? The audacity to believe that your story matters enough to put it on paper. I know that question well because I’ve asked it myself.

When I was in college, I kept notes. Little fragments of life, snapshots of moments, ideas for a memoir I planned to write someday. One day, I told my roommate’s girlfriend about my plans. “Who would want to read your memoir?” she asked. A little rude, perhaps, but fair. It’s the same question most writers wrestle with at some point.

Whether you’re writing a memoir, an autobiography, or fiction, the work is always informed by your life. In some way, shape, or form, you’re almost always writing about yourself. You can’t really write meaningfully about anything else. 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.

Not because you’re not worthy of telling a story, but because it’s the wrong story for you to tell.

When I reread my own novel, reflecting on how it was all about me, I still had the question: why would anyone care? I’m not so special. I’m not extraordinary.

And then it hit me: that’s exactly why they will care.

Because I’m not special. Because I’m just like everyone else. That’s what makes my story relatable. People will care about the parts where they see themselves. The universal truths that come out of the deeply personal moments.

That’s the power of storytelling. It’s not about showing off how great you are; it’s about putting into words the things we all feel but rarely articulate. It’s about being honest enough to say, This is who I am. Do you see yourself here, too?

So, if you’ve ever asked yourself, “Who am I to write a book?” let me offer this answer: You’re the only one who can tell your story. And somewhere out there, someone is waiting for it—not because you’re extraordinary, but because you’re human. That’s enough.

Write your story. Someone out there needs it.

Javier

© 2025 Chapelle Dorée Publishing, LLC. All rights reserved. This content may not be reproduced, distributed, or modified without permission.

And so it begins…

Over twenty-five years ago, I began writing a book that would take seven years to complete. When it was finished, it sat untouched, gathering dust for nearly two decades. Life moved on, as it does, until a series of devastating losses left me questioning my purpose and the meaning of life. It was a dark time for me. I was lost. But a friend reached out and told me: "You need to write again. Everything you have bottled up inside—get it out. Relieve yourself of the weight."

I followed his advice, and what happened next was nothing short of transformative. That second book breathed life back into the first, reviving not just my creative spirit but my will to live. Writing became a compulsion—as other writers often say, I had to write because I couldn’t not write. It was no longer just a creative outlet; it was a lifeline. Writing saved me.

I am Javier De Lucia, and writing is my connection to meaning. It’s the thread that ties together my experiences and helps me make sense of the world. Chapelle Dorée Publishing is the manifestation of that connection—a vision of how I can contribute to the world through literature and by supporting others who feel the same pull toward storytelling.

My first novel, The Wake of Expectations, will be published later this year, followed soon by its sequel, A Pleasant Fiction. These books are more than stories; they are testaments to my experiences and the lessons life has taught me. Through them, I’ve attempted to capture not only my personal truth, but emotional truths that we all share.

Chapelle Dorée began as my journey toward self-publishing, but it has already become much more. In my own stories, I see gaps that need to be filled and perspectives that can broaden their relevance. I also see the authenticity of the singular experience—how a narrative resonates deeply when it is genuine. You don’t need to manufacture commonality for a story to matter. When a story is true, it resonates because, at some level, the human experience is always universal. The details are window dressing; it’s the emotional core that connects us.

My work—and the mission of Chapelle Dorée—is about fostering those connections and embracing the emotional truths that bind us together. I hope you will join me on this journey. Whether my stories inspire or simply entertain, I’m grateful to share this experience with you. Together, we can explore the power of storytelling and the ways it can illuminate, heal, and unite.

Welcome to Chapelle Dorée Publishing—let’s enjoy the ride.

Javier

© 2025 Chapelle Dorée Publishing, LLC. All rights reserved. This content may not be reproduced, distributed, or modified without permission.