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

International Review of Books Badge of Achievement

ChapelleDoree . 4/6/25 ChapelleDoree . 4/6/25

Left Behind at the Starting Line

Hair Metal, Grunge, and the Soundtrack That Disowned Me

A few nights ago, comedian Bill Burr appeared on Late Night with Seth Meyers and told a story about meeting Eddie Vedder. He admitted—without apology—that he used to hate Pearl Jam. Not because they were bad, but because they ended the glam rock era. “That was the band that made me realize my youth was over.”

It struck a nerve.

Because while Burr is a few years older than me and grunge marked the end of something for him, for me, it interrupted something I was just beginning. I wasn’t finishing a chapter—I was stepping into what I thought was the first page. And then the page tore itself out.

Like Calvin in The Wake of Expectations, I felt deeply alienated when I arrived at college. The musical shift wasn’t the only source of that alienation—but it was a big one. And given how central music was to my identity and ambition, it was profoundly consequential.

I was already struggling with who I was—racially, musically, socially, creatively. These threads are all touched on to varying degrees in Calvin’s story: his discomfort with cultural expectations, his tension between discipline and feeling, his complicated relationships, his uncertainty about his future. For me, the aesthetic upheaval in rock music wasn’t just background noise. It was a mirror, reflecting how out of place I felt across multiple dimensions of my life.

When I arrived at college in the fall of ’91, the shift hadn’t happened yet—but it was coming fast.

About a month in, Nirvana’s Nevermind dropped, and Smells Like Teen Spirit took over MTV’s countdown. But even then, it felt like a moment, not a movement. Guns N’ Roses was still huge. Use Your Illusion I & II had just been released, and for a brief moment, both the old world and the new one were coexisting. Chuck Klosterman wrote about that strange cultural hinge, where Axl Rose and Kurt Cobain seemed like two rival contenders for the next great frontman of a generation.

Would the future belong to the spandex-clad virtuosic showmen? Or to the grunge prophets in flannel with the existential weight?

Nirvana cracked the door open. Pearl Jam changed the furniture.

As Burr said, “They always say Nirvana knocked it out. It was Pearl Jam." That's when he knew it wasn't going to stop. That's when he knew the bands he liked were done. And that was devastating. As Burr said: "It was just these sad guys singing about being under a bridge and not being happy...what happened to Nothin' But a Good Time?''

And here’s the thing—even among the remnants of that fading 80s scene, Guns N’ Roses wasn’t really my thing. Axl’s voice was too shrill for me. But GnR was still a lot closer to what I liked than what I was about to get.

I wanted Steve Perry, not snarling.

I wanted Eddie Van Halen, not “Hey! Wait!”

I wanted music that soared, not music that stumbled through its own pain.

So when the aesthetic center of rock shifted—when mumbling replaced harmony and rawness replaced precision—I didn’t just dislike it. I couldn’t abide it. It felt like a personal affront and I had no frame for it.

It wasn’t just that I didn’t like grunge. It was that grunge didn’t like me. It wasn't just a replacement of what came before, it was an outright rejection of it. And pundits, music critics, and the kids down the hall all celebrated its demise. They danced on the grave of the music I loved.

That sense of cultural disinheritance—that feeling that the very thing that made me me was now mocked by the people I was supposed to fit in with—was isolating in a way I didn’t have words for at the time. And that’s part of why Calvin, in the book, never quite fits in either. His disaffection isn’t rebellion. It’s dislocation.

The irony was that grunge was speaking to the same disaffection I was feeling—it just wasn’t speaking in a musical language I understood. And yeah, eventually I found a new sound. One that was neither in nor out. I gravitated to the classics. Some things—some music—are timeless, even if they aren’t cool. But the stuff I liked? It wasn’t in. It wasn’t hip. And neither was I. And that’s actually a pretty big deal when you’re eighteen.

Because back then, your taste in music didn’t just live in your headphones—it shaped your social world…

Which t-shirts you wore.

Which circles you moved in.

Which parties you attended.

Which girls you talked to.

It was a shorthand for identity.

It was tribal.

And I found myself without a tribe.

I couldn’t just go with the flow, because music was too central to my identity. It meant too much to me, and I’d worked too hard to be good at it.

So when people around me started raving about bands I thought were garbage, I didn’t think, What’s wrong with me?

I thought, What the fuck is wrong with these people? Can’t they hear this guy can’t even play his guitar?

And I’m not even talking about the famous bands on MTV. The guys in Pearl Jam and Soundgarden could play. (OK, yeah—I am thinking about Cobain’s guitar playing.) But more than that, I’m thinking about the local bands. The ones that we would play shows with. The guys rehearsing in the next room. The barista who picked up a guitar last week and decided he was an artist, too.

Grunge created a culture of technical mediocrity.

Because the music wasn’t as important as the angst.

That pissed me off.

And when the audience bought into it, it pissed me off even more.

Like Burr, it took me years—decades—to come around. I eventually made peace with grunge. I even came to love some of it—to accept it as the sound of my generation. But only after I had the space to let go of a sound, an identity, and a vision of who I thought I was going to become. Only after I got to a point where I didn’t care what anyone else thought about my music. Only when it wasn’t really important anymore.

But I’ll always carry that moment—standing at the starting line, ready to run, watching the crowd sprint in another direction entirely.

Javier

Further Viewing & Reading

📺 Bill Burr on Late Night with Seth Meyers – “What happened to nothing but a good time?”
In this interview, comedian Bill Burr jokingly blames Pearl Jam for killing off the fun of the hair metal era and admits he once told Eddie Vedder so to his face. A perfect mix of Gen X nostalgia, sarcasm, and barely concealed sincerity.
👉 Watch the clip

📺 Chuck Klosterman on Guns N’ Roses and Grunge
In this 2022 Ultimate Classic Rock interview, Klosterman reflects on how grunge dismantled the cultural dominance of glam metal, using Guns N’ Roses as the pivotal example. His take is part history, part sociology, and pure Klosterman.
👉 Read the interview

ChapelleDoree . 4/3/25 ChapelleDoree . 4/3/25

The Proof of Love

“Only those you love can truly hurt you.”

It’s one of those sayings we all intuitively understand — passed down through poems and scriptures. It’s not their love that gives them that power. It’s yours. Strangers can offend you. Acquaintances can annoy you. But when someone you love lets you down? That cuts deeper.

The Wake of Expectations leans into that emotional truth — but it also turns it inside out:

You only know you love the ones who have hurt you.

If they’ve never disappointed you, never confused you, never made you question whether they see you the way you see them — then you haven’t really been tested. And without that test, you don’t know what you’d be willing to hold onto.

That’s the kind of love Calvin wrestles with throughout the book — not abstract, idealized love, but something messier, more human. Some of his most important relationships are full of friction: with his father, with Jake, with Dani. These aren’t simple bonds. They’re complicated, inconsistent, sometimes painful. And yet they endure. They matter.

Because real love is stronger than the pain.

Because sometimes, you need it more than you need peace.

The Myth of Perfect Love

Popular culture loves the idea of unconditional love, but what it often sells us is uncomplicated love. The fantasy is appealing: a partner who always understands, a friend who always knows the right thing to say, a family that never disappoints.

But real love doesn’t live there.

The true test of love isn’t how you feel when everything’s going right. It’s how you respond when things fall apart. When someone you love lets you down — when they disappoint you, misunderstand you, hurt you — and you still love them, something deeper is revealed.

And here’s the part we often forget: you’ll hurt them too.

You’ll get it wrong. You’ll say too much, or not enough. You’ll miss the moment, overstep, disappear when you should’ve shown up. And when you do, you’ll give them the same chance — to prove whether they love you back.

This isn’t about excusing bad behavior. It’s about recognizing that love doesn’t mean never messing up. It means staying honest through the mess. And that goes both ways.

You Don’t Get to Choose Only the Good Parts

There’s this belief — especially in our curated, self-protective culture — that we can keep the good parts of people and discard the rest. That we can draw a firm boundary around hurt and say, that part doesn’t count.

But that’s not how memory works. And it’s not how love works, either.

The experience only has value in its totality.

You don’t get to cherry-pick which moments mattered. The uncomfortable ones mattered. The confused ones. The ones that left you speechless or angry or sad. They’re all part of the bond. Sometimes, they are the moments that matter most.

That’s what The Wake of Expectations explores — not the fantasy of love, but its weight. Its contradictions. The way it persists even when maybe it shouldn’t. The way it survives the parts we wish we could edit out.

A Moment, Recognized

One of my early beta readers reached out after reading a particular scene. She recognized herself in it. She recognized the moment that inspired it.

“I didn’t realize I hurt you,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

I told her the truth:

“I’m not. I’m thankful for all of it.”

Because I am.

I wouldn’t erase it — not even if I could. That moment mattered. Not just for what it revealed, but for what it proved. The relationship was real. And the fact that it left a mark? That’s how I know it meant something.

Final Reflection

If someone has never hurt you, you don’t know what kind of love you’re capable of.

And if you have never hurt someone you love — never disappointed them, never misunderstood them — you don’t yet know what kind of love they’re capable of either.

The point isn’t to avoid the pain. It’s to honor what the pain reveals.

But we’d be lying to ourselves if we didn’t acknowledge this too: there’s a line some people cross that they can’t come back from. A moment when forgiveness isn't possible, or isn't enough. A moment when the damage tips into something irreparable.

That doesn’t mean you never loved them.

It just means you can’t love them anymore.

Maybe the hurt changed something. Maybe the trust collapsed. Maybe the cost became too high. The Wake of Expectations doesn’t offer a tidy answer to that — but it doesn’t flinch from the reality either: love, once proven, can still be lost.

That’s not failure. That’s part of the risk.

Because this isn’t about perfect love.

It isn’t about easy love.

It’s about real love — the kind that bruises, bends, forgives, and, sometimes, walks away.

And if it mattered — you’ll carry it either way.

Javier

ChapelleDoree . 3/28/25 ChapelleDoree . 3/28/25

Before the Epilogue: What 1996 Felt Like

A reflection on the emotional space between the final chapter of The Wake of Expectations and what comes after.

⚠️ Note: This post contains thematic reflections on the closing emotional space of The Wake of Expectations. No major plot details are revealed, but those who haven't finished the novel may prefer to read it first.

There’s a stretch of time in my life I think about often—but only in feeling, rarely in words. It wasn’t the most dramatic period. No big explosions. No grand finales. Just a slow, almost imperceptible shift. The end of one version of myself and the quiet, uncertain beginning of another.

In The Wake of Expectations, the main narrative ends—deliberately—not with closure, but with an emotional pause. There’s a time jump before the epilogue. This piece lives in that space between. That moment in life when you're not quite young anymore, but not fully formed either. When you know you’re on a path, and you’re wondering if it’s the right one—or if there’s still time to change it.

For me, that space—the mid-’90s, specifically 1996—is best understood through two cultural touchstones: Del Amitri and Kicking and Screaming. That band and that film are my shorthand for what it felt like to be alive then. They capture something I didn’t have the language for at the time: a kind of weary hopefulness. A post-college emotional hangover. The ache of potential without direction.

Kicking and Screaming is a different kind of coming-of-age story: young men frozen in place, too smart and self-aware to romanticize the future, but not quite brave enough to let go of the past. It’s messy, meandering, full of unresolved relationships and clever dialogue masking deeper emotional paralysis. It doesn’t tell you how to grow up—it just shows you what it feels like to be stuck trying.

Noah Baumbach captured something so true about that moment in time. It’s a film that’s stayed with me in a quiet, profound way—less for what happens in it, and more for how deeply it understood what it felt like to wait for your life to begin.

I remember exactly where I was when I first saw Del Amitri on David Letterman, performing “Always the Last to Know.” Dave seemed to like them—maybe not effusive, but genuinely appreciative. What stood out was the performance itself: stripped down to just three members, with Justin Currie stepping away from his usual role on bass to sing up front. Will Lee from the World’s Most Dangerous Band handled bass duties that night, which gave Currie space to move differently—to inhabit the vocal. Not flashy, just more present.

They emerged at a time when grunge was fully ascendant, dominating the rock conversation and the airwaves. But Del Amitri offered a different kind of alternative—more thoughtful, more melodic. They weren’t a holdover from the '80s glam rock I’d grown up loving, nor were they part of the noisy revolution that was displacing it. Their sound felt more aligned with the classic rock I had been gravitating toward—more grounded, more lyrical, more human. In that moment, they gave me a path forward musically. A new kind of honesty that didn’t require shouting.

Del Amitri wasn’t cool. Not in the way grunge was cool. But they were honest. Songs like “Driving with the Brakes On” and “When You Were Young” didn’t shout. They sat with you. They looked you in the eye. They understood a different kind of longing—not just for love, but for clarity. For self-acceptance.

And “When You Were Young” in particular—there was something strange and quietly devastating about hearing a song like that while I was still, technically, young. It asked a question I wasn’t ready to answer: Would your younger self be proud of who you’ve become? I was still becoming. But I already felt the weight of that question. Because that’s the thing about that age—you can feel yourself shifting from the boundless freedom of youth to the quiet realization that you’re now on a path. You haven’t arrived, but you can see where it’s going. And you wonder: Do I really want this? And more urgently: Is there still time to change?

You could still jump to a new path. But now, it would cost you something.

It’s not too late. But it’s not early.

You’re not old. But you’re not wide-eyed anymore.

You’re caught in the middle. Trying to come to terms with a life that’s beginning to take shape—whether you meant it to or not.

That was me in 1996.

Still young, but not for much longer.

Still lost, but wanting to be found.

And in The Wake of Expectations, that’s where we leave Calvin—right before the epilogue. Not with certainty. But with movement. With the first flicker of something new.

Del Amitri. Kicking and Screaming.

David Letterman at midnight.

The last gasp of youth.

And the beginning of something I couldn’t yet name.

Further Viewing

Del Amitri performs “Always the Last to Know” on Late Night with David Letterman (1992):
Watch on YouTube
Kicking and Screaming (1995) – Official Trailer:
Watch on YouTube

Javier

ChapelleDoree . 3/23/25 ChapelleDoree . 3/23/25

What Comes First? Rethinking the Release, the Plan, and the Relationship Between Two Books

While we wait for The Wake of Expectations to officially release on June 3, I wanted to share a bit of perspective—on the release plan, the shape of the story, and how two very different books ended up being parts of the same whole.

A Pleasant Fiction Is Finished

The Wake of Expectations has been with me for two decades. It was written years ago, rewritten many times, and quietly set aside. It’s the kind of book you finish when you’re still trying to understand what it is you’re really saying.

Then I wrote A Pleasant Fiction. I didn’t plan it. It came quickly, and it came with clarity. And in doing so, it gave me what I needed to finally return to Wake and see it through.

If not for A Pleasant Fiction, The Wake of Expectations would never have seen print.

Now both books are ready. Wake will release first, on June 3. A Pleasant Fiction will follow shortly after. The cover is almost done, and when it’s ready, I’ll announce the official release date in a separate post—along with a proper cover reveal.

Not a Sequel. Not a Prequel. A Duology.

At first, I thought A Pleasant Fiction was a sequel. But the more I sat with the two books side by side, the clearer it became: that word doesn’t fit.

These are not two halves of one story. They are two complete works, told from different angles, shaped by different voices, separated by time and tone.

The Wake of Expectations is 30-year-old me reflecting on 20-year-old Calvin.
A Pleasant Fiction is 50-year-old Calvin, written by 50-year-old me.

That difference in distance changes everything.

Wake is filtered through youth—its mistakes, its longing, the immediate hindsight of it.
APF is quieter, heavier, more measured. It carries the weight of grief, of reflection, of having lived through what the earlier book only feared.

You can appreciate each on its own.
But together, they offer something greater.
Not just a story, but a continuum.
A dual consciousness.
A conversation across time.

One book captures the momentum of becoming.
The other explores the stillness of being.

Wake is about chasing something you can’t quite catch.
APF is about letting go of what you already had.

They exist in dialogue, not in sequence.

The Length Was Always Going to Be an Issue

There’s no getting around it: The Wake of Expectations is long. That’s been a barrier for some readers and a non-starter for most reviewers. And I understood that risk from the beginning.

That’s part of why I self-published. It’s why I created Chapelle Dorée Publishing. Because I knew traditional publishers and agents would likely pass based on word count alone.

But I wasn’t interested in cutting it just to make it shorter. I wasn’t trying to get it down to some arbitrary page count. I had an editor. I went through multiple revisions. The original version of The Wake of Expectations was over a thousand pages—so yes, I made significant cuts. I tightened what needed tightening.

But I wasn’t going to carve out its heart just to fit a mold.
I knew what the book was. I knew what it needed to be.
And I made the decision to release it as-is—with full confidence in its shape, its length, and its purpose.

The Irony: I Didn't Solve the Length Problem—I Doubled Down on It

When I first finished A Pleasant Fiction, I thought, “This is the shorter book. This will be the accessible one.” And it is—by word count, by structure, by pace.

But once I stepped back and saw the way these two books speak to each other, I realized something else:

I didn’t solve the length problem. I just exacerbated it.

The one long book that people already found intimidating now has a counterpart.
Not a follow-up. Not an appendix. A second full volume that reframes and deepens everything the first one set in motion.

Instead of asking readers to commit to one ambitious novel, I’m now asking them to commit to two. And yes, that’s a big ask, but the story demands it. Because only when both books exist—together—can the full picture come into focus.

So yes, I doubled down on the risk.
But I also doubled down on the vision.
And I stand by it.

What Happens Now

The Wake of Expectations releases June 3.
A Pleasant Fiction will follow soon after.

They are not parts of a linear series.
They are not first and second.

They are two books—two lenses—revealing different truths, reshaping your understanding of one another the deeper you go. You can start with either. But to see the full picture, you’ll need both.

This is a duology in the truest sense:
Not two stories stitched together—
but one lived life, seen from opposite ends of time.

And I get it—this is a big commitment to ask of a reader from a debut novelist.
You don’t know who I am. Not yet.
But after you read this, you will.

And maybe—just maybe—you’ll have a better idea of who you are, too.

Javier

ChapelleDoree . 3/18/25 ChapelleDoree . 3/18/25

Authenticity vs. Toxicity: Depicting the Past Without Judgment (But Inviting It Anyway)

One of the best professors I had in college once told me: I’m not here to give you all the answers. I’m here to help you ask the right questions. That philosophy stuck with me, and it’s something this book—and this entire series—can aspire to as well.

Because The Wake of Expectations isn’t about handing readers a set of neat conclusions. It’s about presenting moments as they were experienced and trusting the reader to grapple with them.

The Challenge of Writing an Honest Past

There’s a tricky balance when writing about the past—especially when you’re committed to authenticity. It’s easy to clean things up, to make characters more enlightened than they really were, or to slip in a modern perspective that calls out every flaw in real time. But that wouldn’t be honest.

Instead, Wake presents Calvin exactly as he was in the moment—not with the wisdom of hindsight, not with an authorial hand guiding the reader toward an easy moral takeaway. This means sometimes Calvin is frustrating. Sometimes he’s wrong. And sometimes, he’s neither right nor wrong—just navigating life the best way he knows how.

Calvin is not presented as a moral exemplar. Nor does he exist as an object lesson or a cautionary tale. He is a person—a flawed, evolving person. He makes mistakes. He does (or at least says or thinks) things that are selfish, thoughtless, or even cruel at times.

But good people can do bad things. And bad people can do good things. (This exact idea was just presented in the latest episode of Daredevil: Born Again, but it’s been true for as long as stories have been told.) Sometimes you don’t know which one you are.

Inviting Criticism Without Dictating It

Just because Calvin thinks it or says it doesn’t mean he’s right. But it doesn’t mean he’s wrong either. It just means he’s Calvin—the Calvin of that moment.

That’s especially true when it comes to the way Calvin and his friends talk about women and sexuality. At times, their casual objectification goes unquestioned in the moment, just as it often did (and still does) in real life. Whether it’s the way they talk about women’s bodies, measure women by their looks or sexual availability, or make offhand jokes about homosexuality—these moments aren’t flagged with a moral judgment.

But that doesn’t mean the reader isn’t supposed to notice. (Or that the author didn’t notice it either.) If you read those moments and feel uncomfortable, good. That means you’re thinking about it. If you read them through a nostalgic lens, you may better understand the characters’ intentions—though that may come with a lingering blind spot to the impact of their actions. And that’s an important distinction to make.

The Role of Humor: Laughing at the Wrong Things?

The Wake of Expectations does invite you to laugh. And sometimes, you may catch yourself thinking, I shouldn't be laughing at this. But maybe you still will, despite yourself. And maybe that’s worth reflecting on.

Is it actually funny? If so, why do I feel bad about laughing at it? Can I hold two thoughts in my head at the same time—this is wrong, but it’s also funny?

In Raw, Eddie Murphy tells the story of how Bill Cosby chastised him for his use of profanity. He recounts how Richard Pryor told him, "Whatever…makes the people laugh, say that shit." The point being that laughter serves its own purpose, and sometimes we use tools to make people laugh that not everyone will be comfortable with.

But then, what is appropriate? What is fair game? As French comedien Pierre Desporages once said, “We can laugh at everything, but not necessarily with everyone.” When is a joke just a joke and when is it supposed to make you think? When are we laughing with rather than at someone? When are we making a joke about the disconnects that arise when our perceptions differ rather than about how someone else perceives the world? And can the purpose of a joke depend on the audience?

The Wake of Expectations doesn’t answer these questions for you. But it does put you in situations where you’ll have to think about it. Humor, especially dark humor, exists in that uncomfortable space between amusement and critique. It makes us confront the contradictions in what we find funny, and in doing so, it can become a tool for self-awareness.

It’s okay if you laugh. And it’s okay if your laughter makes you uncomfortable. And it’s even better if your discomfort makes you think. That’s what dark humor is supposed to do.

The Book Exists as a Story, First and Foremost

Although these issues of humor and morality are woven throughout Wake, the book does not exist primarily to be a meditation on these themes. It’s not an endorsement of what the characters do or say; it’s not a critique either. It’s a depiction—it exists as a story. A personal story.

One person’s journey.

Calvin’s journey.

The point is, meditations on these themes are part of every personal journey. Everyone, at some point, looks back and wonders:

Did I do the right thing?
Did I hurt people without realizing it?
Was I the bad guy in someone else’s story?

This book isn’t about giving readers those answers. It’s about giving them the space to ask those questions. It invites you to ask, but it doesn’t demand it, and it doesn’t do it for you.

To be clear, my goal is authenticity, not social critique. Take from it what you will. There are layers. If you want to wrestle with the deeper questions, they’re there. But if you’re just here for a story, that’s fine too. You’re welcome to experience it however you choose. My primary concern is that the story is told honestly and earnestly.

Let the Reader Do the Work

A book like The Wake of Expectations doesn’t spoon-feed the reader moral conclusions. It doesn’t engage in a presentist critique. It presents characters, situations, and perspectives as they were experienced (or, more accurately, as we reconstruct them or imagine they would have been experienced during that time, in that moment). Some readers will be frustrated by that. Others will appreciate the honesty. Some will probably feel both.

I honestly hope you like Calvin, I really do. But I don’t expect you’ll like everything about him. The important thing to remember is this: just because Calvin thinks it, doesn’t mean he’s right. He’s just Calvin. And it’s up to the reader to decide what that means.

And if Wake doesn’t give you all the answers—good. It was never supposed to.

Further Viewing

Eddie Murphy (Raw) on Bill Cosby and Richard Pryor:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pZlQaE4GDUY

Javier

ChapelleDoree . 3/13/25 ChapelleDoree . 3/13/25

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

ChapelleDoree . 3/9/25 ChapelleDoree . 3/9/25

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

ChapelleDoree . 3/4/25 ChapelleDoree . 3/4/25

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

ChapelleDoree . 2/27/25 ChapelleDoree . 2/27/25

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

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

ChapelleDoree . 2/21/25 ChapelleDoree . 2/21/25

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

ChapelleDoree . 2/19/25 ChapelleDoree . 2/19/25

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

It all begins with an idea.

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

ChapelleDoree . 1/27/25 ChapelleDoree . 1/27/25

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

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

Who Are You to Write a Book?

It all begins with an idea.

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

ChapelleDoree . 1/23/25 ChapelleDoree . 1/23/25

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 traumatic events led me into an existential crisis. It was a dark time for me. I was lost. But a friend reached out and told me: "You need to write again. Get it out. Relieve yourself of the weight."

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

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

Hair Metal, Grunge, and the Soundtrack That Disowned Me

Nirvana cracked the door open. Pearl Jam changed the furniture.

Further Viewing & Reading

The Myth of Perfect Love

You Don’t Get to Choose Only the Good Parts

A Moment, Recognized

Final Reflection

A reflection on the emotional space between the final chapter of The Wake of Expectations and what comes after.

⚠️ Note: This post contains thematic reflections on the closing emotional space of The Wake of Expectations. No major plot details are revealed, but those who haven't finished the novel may prefer to read it first.

Further Viewing

A Pleasant Fiction Is Finished

Not a Sequel. Not a Prequel. A Duology.

The Length Was Always Going to Be an Issue

The Irony: I Didn't Solve the Length Problem—I Doubled Down on It

What Happens Now

The Challenge of Writing an Honest Past

Inviting Criticism Without Dictating It

The Role of Humor: Laughing at the Wrong Things?

The Book Exists as a Story, First and Foremost

Let the Reader Do the Work

Further Viewing

A Novel That Fills the Gap

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

Ryan Clark’s Perspective: The Fear of Real Rejection

Male Friendships: Real, Messy, and Worth Writing About

Not a Blueprint—Just a Mirror

Why This Kind of Fiction Matters

Further Reading & References

Chapelle Dorée Publishing, LLC

Location

Contact

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