Writing & Philosophy

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.