MojoWriter Blog

I’ve always been a believer that some things are just self-evident if you’re paying attention. You don’t need a pile of studies or a complicated theory. Just life experience, a little observation, and some honesty about how things tend to go.

Over the years, I’ve boiled it all down into something simple I call The Grand Seed — a kind of personal philosophy that helps me make sense of why things happen the way they do, and what seems to work when they do go right.

Reality Isn’t What We Think It Is

One of the stranger things about being human is that we don’t actually experience the world directly. Not the way we think we do. We like to believe we see the world as it is, but the truth is, there’s always a filter—an interpreter sitting between us and reality.

Think about a dog, or a bird, or any animal out in nature. When they see a tree, they’re not thinking, Ah yes, genus Quercus, possibly an oak. They don’t label it. They don’t assign extra meaning to it. They just experience the tree. They interact with it directly as part of their environment — either it’s shelter, food, a place to perch, or something to ignore. They’re plugged right into the raw data.

We, on the other hand, don’t really interact with the tree itself. We interact with the idea of the tree. We see it, sure, but almost instantly our brain slaps a label on it: “Tree.” Our minds start attaching information we’ve gathered over the years: That’s an oak; it’s about twenty years old; my grandfather had one like that in his yard; I wonder if it would make good firewood.

By the time all that processing is done, we’ve distanced ourselves from the actual experience. We’re no longer seeing the tree — we’re seeing our mental model of the tree. The symbol. The story. The shortcut our brain uses to navigate the world.

This happens with everything: people, places, even our own emotions. We interact with our symbols for them, not the raw thing itself. It’s useful — symbols help us think faster, communicate, and make decisions. But they also blind us to what’s really there.

That’s what I mean by Perceived Reality. It’s not reality itself, but our internal version of it — the version our senses, language, and experiences have filtered for us.

Meanwhile, what I call Absolute Reality — the pure data of existence — just is. It doesn’t care what labels we put on it. It’s not telling any stories. It’s just matter and energy, doing its thing.

The interesting part is, everything — including our own thoughts — is made of that same information. That’s why sometimes our thoughts can influence our experience of reality. Not because thoughts are magic, but because both thought and reality are built from the same raw stuff: information, patterns, energy.

Once you realize how much of your world is a story you’re telling yourself, you start to loosen your grip on needing those stories to be a certain way. You get a little closer to seeing things as they are. Not through the filter, but directly — or at least, as close as we humans can get.

Balance Is Everything

If there’s one rule that seems to apply across nature, society, and our own heads, it’s balance.

When something’s out of balance, systems work to restore it. That’s true whether we’re talking about ecosystems, relationships, or your own mental health. Even the conflict in your own life is often just some imbalance trying to correct itself.

And when balance isn’t restored? That’s where things start to fall apart.

The Tug-of-War Between Positive and Negative

In my mind, everything we do kind of falls into two camps.

On the positive side, you’ve got things like empathy, synergy, growth, and learning. This is where people listen to each other, help each other out, and combine their strengths. When people cooperate, they can build things none of them could have pulled off alone. That’s synergy — where one plus one doesn’t just equal two, it equals five or ten. You see it in good friendships, strong families, healthy businesses, and communities that actually work. It’s where generosity feeds back into itself. You help someone today; tomorrow, someone helps you. It snowballs.

You also see it inside yourself. When you respect yourself and trust that you’re allowed to screw up and still be a good person, you give yourself room to grow. You learn from failure instead of being crushed by it. You adjust, you adapt, and you get better. A little progress makes you stronger, and that strength makes the next step easier. Momentum builds. One good thing leads to another.

But there’s another side to all this — the negative side.

This is where good things get twisted. It’s where natural desires turn into addictions. We’re wired to enjoy food, comfort, attention, security. These are all good and necessary. But when they stop being tools for survival and start becoming ends in themselves, we get into trouble.

Comfort turns into complacency. Pleasure turns into dependency. A healthy drive for recognition turns into an obsession with approval. Before long, you’re chasing the feeling instead of living your life. And just like positive momentum snowballs, so does the negative. The more you feed those addictions, the harder it gets to break free.

This kind of imbalance shows up everywhere — not just in individuals, but in entire cultures. Look around, and you’ll see societies that once thrived now buckling under the weight of their own excess. People get more, but feel less satisfied. Instead of gratitude, there’s emptiness. Instead of community, isolation. It’s the same pattern on a bigger scale.

The mental version of this is just as destructive. Negative thought feeds itself like a fire that never runs out of fuel. You tell yourself you’re not good enough, and every little setback becomes proof. Failure piles onto failure, not because you’re doomed, but because you stop believing you can change course. You stop trying. The loop closes in on itself.

But the good news — and this is important — is that both sides work the same way. Just like negativity can spiral downward, positivity can spiral upward. A small shift in how you think can lead to a small change in how you act. That small change creates a better result, which makes you a little more confident, which encourages you to try again. Over time, that becomes a habit. And habits become your life.

So you have a choice. You can let the negative spiral run your life. Or you can catch it, interrupt it, and start building the positive spiral instead.

One builds life. The other breaks it down.

The Seed

At the heart of all this is what I call The Seed Idea:

Self-respect and a positive mindset are the key ingredients for success.

Not success as in “get rich and famous.” Success as in: a life that works. A life that feels good to live.

If you respect yourself, and you approach things with the intent of benefiting both yourself and others, you set yourself up for real growth. You create synergy. And you move toward balance — which is where everything wants to be anyway.

That’s The Grand Seed. Simple. Not always easy. But simple.

Don’t Preach, Just Live It

The tricky part — and maybe the most important part — is that you don’t lecture people about this stuff. You live it. You show it. You let others see it in action.

People don’t learn from being told what to do. They learn from seeing what works.

That’s the kind of seed that actually grows.

At the end of the day, it’s not about trying to control everything. It’s about understanding how things work, staying aware of balance, and choosing positive over negative when you can. The rest tends to take care of itself.

I’ve never really been drawn to the usual list of vices. No thrill-seeking stunts, no dark alley temptations, nothing that comes with a warning label. But there’s one thing I’ve definitely wrestled with—something just as powerful, but a lot harder to spot.

Approval.

Not the kind where someone appreciates your work or thanks you for something—that’s fine. I mean the kind of approval you start needing like oxygen. The kind that starts calling the shots. That kind.

It starts small. Maybe you do something and someone says, “That was great.” You feel good. You want more of that. So next time, you do it a little differently, maybe not how you would’ve done it, but how you think they’d like it. Before long, you’re doing more of what you think people will clap for and less of what actually means something to you. You stop living from the inside out. You become a mirror—just reflecting back what you think other people want to see.

And here’s the trap: people’s approval feels like connection, but it’s not. Not really. It’s more like applause at a show you don’t even want to be in. You’re performing for a crowd that might not even be paying attention, and even if they are, it doesn’t feel like love. It feels like relief. Temporary relief from the fear that maybe you’re not enough unless someone says so.

The problem is, when you start outsourcing your self-worth, you can’t stop. Because the high never lasts. One compliment wears off and you go looking for the next one. A new face, a new room, a new platform. Chasing smiles like they’re currency. And all the while, you lose track of your own voice.

It took me a long time to realize this. And I still catch myself slipping into old habits. Writing something and wondering, “Will people like this?” before I even ask, “Do I?”

But I’m learning—slowly, messily—that the real freedom isn’t in getting everyone to approve of you. It’s in not needing them to. It’s in knowing who you are, what you value, and being okay with the fact that not everyone’s going to clap.

You can’t live a real life if you’re always auditioning.

So these days, I try to catch myself when I start reaching for that old fix. I take a breath. I remember what it felt like to be a kid drawing spaceships just because I liked drawing spaceships—not because anyone was watching. And I remind myself that I’m allowed to live like that again.

No audience. No applause. Just real life, unfolding on its own terms.

As the Red Hot Chili Peppers put it: “Choose not a life of imitation.”

You don’t have to become what the world expects. You just have to be who you already are.

There’s this weird thing I do when I’m anxious. I sit still and try to think my way out of it. Like maybe if I just analyze the hell out of whatever’s got me tied up in knots, I’ll eventually think the anxiety into submission.

Spoiler: it never works.

Anxiety, for me, is like being haunted by a ghost that only shows up when I stop moving. The moment I sit down to think, it drags a chair up beside me and starts whispering worst-case scenarios into my ear. It’s not even creative about it—just your standard issue fears dressed up in different costumes: failure, embarrassment, regret. The usual suspects, and sometimes they hit so hard they make me jump, like I’m startled.

Am I the only one that happens to?

However, something shifts when I get up and do something. And by something, I mean anything. Even if it’s just washing the dishes or walking outside. It’s like moving my body gives my brain a break from itself. And the ghost? It doesn’t seem to know how to keep up. It lingers for a bit, maybe tries one last whisper, then wanders off in search of someone who’s just sitting there thinking too hard.

I’ve come to realize that anxiety thrives in the abstract. It feeds on questions like “What if?” and “What does this mean?” and for me, especially, “What will they think?” But action lives in the concrete. When you’re actually doing something—editing a photo, sending the email, petting a cat—it’s harder for your mind to conjure all those imaginary disasters. It’s too busy dealing with the real world, right here, right now.

Don’t get me wrong—action doesn’t magically fix everything. It doesn’t guarantee a happy ending or make the risk go away. But it changes the texture of the moment. It cuts through the fog. It’s like flipping on the headlights during a stormy night drive—not because the road suddenly becomes safer, but because you can actually see where you’re going.

So now, when I feel that ghost creeping in, I try not to think my way out of it. I just move. I write the thing. I take the picture. I screw it up and learn something. Because no matter how badly it goes, it’s better than being stuck in my head with all the lights off.

And maybe that’s all action really is. Not the opposite of fear, but the light switch we reach for in the dark.

Written in 1984. First published in 2001. Fully updated for 2025.

“A prophetic, darkly funny journey through media addiction, AI manipulation, and spiritual decay, Wasting Away is a cult classic reborn for the 21st century. Breaking the fourth wall with reckless glee, author Jerry J. Davis narrates the creation—and re-creation—of a novel written at the dawn of the digital age and resurrected for a world that finally caught up to its warnings.”

I never realized how ahead of its time this story was—so much so that when I first wrote it, back in the mid-1980s, publishers didn’t understand what the hell I was talking about. It was too cyberpunk even for cyberpunk editors. Finally, in 2001, a very forward-thinking editor at Time-Warner understood the book and bought it. Unfortunately, the timing was terrible, as it was released just a week or so before 9/11.

They still carry the original version today, but they canceled the second book in the contract and closed the imprint.

With everything happening today, the world has become tech-savvy enough to understand this story, and the core problems I predicted are now coming to pass. It’s no longer science fiction; instead, because it was written so long ago, it’s more like an alternate timeline of the present day.

I’ve updated it without really updating it, so to speak. Channeling my inner Kurt Vonnegut, this book is now part journal, part novel, part reality, and part science fiction. I’ve reverted to the original title and restored the original ending. Some parts are so eerily ominous they even freak me out—especially my offhanded little prediction for the year 2026, which now looks as though it might actually come true.

It’s a novel that, I truly feel, is extremely relevant to the world we’re living in right now.

It went live today in ebook and paperback formats.

I just rewatched Galaxy Quest for the first time in many years, and something unexpected happened: I realized I might actually love it even more than Star Trek.

As someone who’s been devotedly watching Star Trek since it first aired back in the 1960s, that’s no small admission. Star Trek has been foundational—not just in shaping my taste in science fiction but in inspiring my sense of hope, curiosity, and wonder about humanity’s future. It’s an integral part of who I am, woven deeply into my memories.

But Galaxy Quest, viewed today through older eyes, resonates in a uniquely refreshing way. It’s funny, of course, but it’s also filled with genuine warmth, surprising depth, and an earnest affection for its source material. It’s not just a spoof; it’s a heartfelt tribute. Maybe it’s the meta-humor or the gentle way it pokes fun at fandom while simultaneously celebrating it, but the characters, performances, and the clever writing left me smiling more broadly and reflecting more deeply than I remembered.

And speaking of performances, Alan Rickman brings remarkable nuance to what could have been a simple comedic role. Rickman’s portrayal carries an underlying sincerity and gravitas, making every moment he’s on screen memorable and genuinely moving. I genuinely miss him—his talent, charisma, and ability to elevate any character he played were extraordinary, and his passing left a deep void in cinema.

Star Trek will always have my heart, but Galaxy Quest somehow manages to encapsulate everything I adore about Trek—the hopefulness, the teamwork, and the optimism—wrapped up in humor and sincerity. Perhaps it’s that self-aware charm that resonates differently now, decades after its release.

Galaxy Quest might just be my favorite Star Trek movie of all.

Never give up, never surrender, indeed.

When I’m writing fiction, which more often than not involves mythical creatures, I end up going down some rabbit holes that take me in unexpected directions. This is one of the more fascinating ones.

In the vast tapestry of global folklore, few creatures are as enigmatic and regionally celebrated as the Rougarou—a werewolf-like entity prowling the shadows of Louisiana’s bayous. Rooted deeply in Cajun legends, the Rougarou (also spelled “Loup-garou,” from the French “loup” meaning wolf and “garou” meaning man who transforms into an animal) is said to be a cursed individual, doomed to transform into a wolf-like beast under specific conditions.​

The tale of the Rougarou is a fascinating blend of French folklore and the rich cultural tapestry of Louisiana. French settlers brought with them stories of the Loup-garou, which intermingled with Native American and African narratives, birthing the unique legend of the Rougarou. Traditionally, the transformation is believed to be a punishment for those who break Lent or engage in other sinful behaviors. The cursed individual becomes a creature with a human body and the head of a wolf or dog, prowling the swamps and fields at night, instilling fear in the hearts of those who cross its path.​

The Rougarou’s curse is not eternal. According to legend, the afflicted person remains under the spell for 101 days. During this period, the curse can be transferred if the Rougarou draws another’s blood, thereby passing on the affliction. At the end of the 101 days, if the curse is not transferred, the individual returns to human form, often with little memory of their nocturnal escapades.​

Beyond its role as a spine-chilling bedtime story, the Rougarou serves as a moral compass within Cajun communities. The legend reinforces adherence to religious practices and societal norms, with the threat of transformation acting as a deterrent against moral transgressions. Moreover, the Rougarou embodies the rich oral tradition of Louisiana’s folklore, preserving the cultural heritage and shared beliefs of the region.​

In contemporary times, the Rougarou has transcended folklore, embedding itself into the cultural and commercial fabric of Louisiana. Festivals celebrating the creature draw crowds eager to experience the mystique and revelry associated with the legend. Merchandise ranging from costumes to crafts showcases the Rougarou’s iconic imagery, reflecting its enduring appeal. Additionally, the creature has found its way into popular media, featuring in books, television shows, and local attractions, ensuring that the legend continues to thrive in the modern imagination.​

(It is surprising to me to learn that it’s been featured numerous times in Supernatural, which I used to watch religiously with my younger daughter, but I have no memory of this.)

There is a legend that, during one particularly foggy night, a local fisherman named Boudreaux stumbled upon a Rougarou caught in one of his traps. Terrified yet curious, Boudreaux mustered the courage to ask, “Rougarou, why you been messin’ with my traps?” To his surprise, the Rougarou replied, “I was just trying to catch me some dinner, same as you!” From that day on, Boudreaux always left an extra fish by his traps, just in case his furry friend got hungry again.​

I think this friendship would make a great story. Maybe one of my next books will be called “No Such Thing as Rougarou.”

A definite possibility.​

Lately, I’ve been feeling antisocial. I don’t exactly know why. Maybe it’s the general state of the world—this endless barrage of bad news and noise. Maybe it’s just one of those moods that creeps in unannounced. But whatever the reason, I find myself withdrawing, and then almost immediately, I start questioning it.

Shouldn’t I be more engaged? Shouldn’t I be reaching out, staying connected, being a part of things?

It’s a strange contradiction, isn’t it? The mind always seems to whisper two things at once: You should be with people. You should be alone. And whichever one I choose, the other lingers in the background, second-guessing me.

But here’s something to consider—who is this “I” that both craves solitude and thinks it should be social? It’s as if I’m split into two selves: one that feels the pull of isolation, and another that stands back, observing, questioning, making judgments. And the real struggle comes from believing that one of them must be right and the other must be wrong.

In reality, there’s no rule that says I must be social, just as there’s none that says I must be alone. Both are natural states. Sometimes we withdraw, sometimes we engage. Sometimes we are like the moon, hidden in shadow; other times, we reflect light back into the world.

The important thing is not to force myself into socializing out of guilt or obligation. Can I just sit with this feeling instead? Can I let it be, without trying to fix it? Because maybe solitude is exactly what I need right now. And when the time is right, I’ll gravitate toward people again—not because I should, but because I want to.

So, for now, I’ll be as I am, without forcing anything. And if I do rejoin the world, I’ll do it the way a musician rejoins the orchestra—not because he has to, but because he feels the rhythm calling him back.

It Keeps You Engaged Without Breaking Your Brain

If you’ve ever looked at the news, sighed deeply, and muttered “What even is real anymore?” Yeah, me too. This is how I took my first steps into the wild world of optimistic nihilism — a mindset that just might keep me sane while the world around us implodes into deeper and deeper absurdity.

So, what is Optimistic Nihilism?

It’s simple: nothing inherently matters, so you get to decide what does. Unlike regular old nihilism, which suggests that life has no meaning and everything is doomed, optimistic nihilism says:

• The universe is indifferent
• Everything is chaotic and meaningless
• You’re totally free to make your own meaning, and most importantly, it’s okay to have fun doing it

Instead of being crushed under the weight of this meaningless cosmos, you get to dance on top of it.

Let’s face it. The last several years have been a fucking nightmare, and it’s getting worse. Between political insanity, reality-warping misinformation, and social media screaming matches, it’s clear that we’re all stuck in an absurdist sitcom that is not at all funny.

But that’s where optimistic nihilism comes in. Here’s why it might be the best mental tool for handling this madness:

• Freedom from Doomscrolling Anxiety — If nothing is cosmically important, then maybe that one awful tweet or that latest headline doesn’t have to ruin your day.
• You Can Define Your Own Purpose — The world’s a mess? Cool. That means you’re not obligated to follow any pre-written script. Go write a book. Start a weird hobby. Befriend a raccoon. The rules are yours to create!
• It Turns Chaos Into Comedy — Once you accept that everything is absurd, the political circus starts looking less like a terrifying dystopia and more like a darkly hilarious Coen Brothers movie.
• It Keeps You Engaged Without Breaking Your Brain — You don’t have to be emotionally crushed by every piece of bad news. You can care, take action, and fight for a better world — without letting the weight of it all destroy your joy. Instead of feeling like a powerless extra in a never-ending political horror film, you can be the protagonist in your own story, choosing where to put your energy.

At the end of the day, optimistic nihilism isn’t about giving up — it’s about realizing you’re in charge of what you focus on.

Yes, things are chaotic. Yes, the world is unpredictable. Yes, the universe is a vast and indifferent place where nothing has inherent meaning.

But that’s actually good news, because it means you’re free. Free to laugh. Free to create. Free to decide what matters to you and lean into it hard.

For more in-depth information about Optimistic Nihilism I recommend this article by Dr. Steve Parker:

Optimistic Nihilism: A Creative Approach to Existence — Provided You Exercise Caution

How I Choose to Move with Change Instead of Letting It Steamroll Over Me

Lately, it feels as if the world is unraveling. Every headline, every conversation, every anxious social media post repeats the same refrain — things are falling apart. The new administration is making sweeping changes, institutions are being gutted, and uncertainty hangs in the air like a brewing storm, ready to unleash its fury at any moment. People are panicking, clinging to fear like a life raft in a raging sea.

And yet, here I sit, feeling the same fear tighten in my chest, the same anxious thoughts pulling at my mind. I feel the urge to fight, to lash out, to take up arms against the uncertainty. To do something — anything — to push back against the chaos. But then I take a breath and remind myself — this has always been the nature of things. Chaos is never as far away as we like to believe. It waits just beyond the illusion of order, ready to spill over the edges of our carefully constructed lives. And when it does, we act as if it’s some great violation, rather than the return of something ancient and inevitable.

Alan Watts once wrote, “The more a thing tends to be permanent, the more it tends to be lifeless.” We forget that everything — governments, economies, societies — are living processes, not fixed structures. They grow, evolve, decay, and are reborn. To expect stability in an ever-changing world is like expecting the ocean to hold still.

It won’t. It never has.

So I ask myself: What do I actually control? The answer, of course, is not much. I cannot dictate the course of a government. I cannot slow the march of time or force things to remain as they were. But I can choose how I meet the moment.

I can choose to move with change instead of against it. I can choose not to let fear paralyze me, even as I watch those in power tear things down with reckless abandon. Destruction is infuriating — it makes me want to scream, to fight, to demand that things be made right. But even in the wreckage, there is opportunity. If the old world is crumbling, then we are the ones who must lay the foundation for something stronger, something better. And as frustrating as that is, as much as it burns to see what’s been lost, it’s the only thing we truly can do. Watts also said, “To resist change, to try to cling to life, is like holding your breath: if you persist you kill yourself.” So instead, I exhale. I let go of what I cannot hold, and I turn my attention to what can be built in its place.

The world may feel like it’s unraveling, but it is not simply falling apart — it is reshaping itself. And while we may not control the storm, we are not powerless within it. We do not give up in despair. We do not shrink back in fear. Instead, we put our hands in, we shape what comes next, we guide the world toward something better. This is the dance — not passive acceptance, but active engagement with the ever-changing flow of life.

So today, I dance — not away from the chaos, but into it.

Mindfulness — the art of being truly present, here and now. To cultivate it in daily life, one must begin with the simple act of attention. Not as a grim duty or a spiritual exercise, but as an exploration, a playful curiosity about this moment, as it unfolds.

I tell this to myself, as I channel my inner Alan Watts.

First, I imagine him to say, “recognize that mindfulness is not about achieving something. It is about noticing what already is.” A starting point could be your breath. You don’t need to control it, for your breath breathes itself. Sit quietly for a moment and simply observe the rhythm of inhalation and exhalation. Feel the air moving through your nostrils, the rise and fall of your chest. This, you see, is an anchor — a way to come back to the present whenever your mind drifts.

As you go about your day (my inner Alan Watts tells me), mindfulness can be woven into the most mundane activities. Washing dishes, for example, can become a meditation. Feel the warm water on your hands, the texture of the soap, the sound of the running tap. (This is why I don’t mind doing the dishes.)

Walking, too, becomes an opportunity to feel the earth beneath your feet, to notice the sway of your arms, the sounds of the world around you. (This is why I like taking solitary walks.)

I imagine Alan telling me that “the key is to avoid labeling these experiences as ‘good’ or ‘bad.’ Simply notice them.” The moment you try to forcemindfulness, you turn it into yet another task, another thing to “get right.” But life, as Alan would say, is not a riddle to be solved; it is a song to be sung.

And when you inevitably find yourself lost in thought, distracted or overwhelmed, be gentle with yourself. The act of noticing that you’ve wandered off is, itself, mindfulness. In that moment, you are aware of awareness.

Ultimately, mindfulness isn’t something separate from life. It is life. It is the art of realizing that you are not apart from this flowing moment but an intrinsic part of its dance. The wind doesn’t have to try to blow; it simply does. So, too, let mindfulness arise naturally, as an expression of your own being.

And with that, my inner Beavis and Butthead start going, “Heh heh, heh, heh heh heh, he said ‘blow.’”