Writing & Philosophy

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.