JERRY J. DAVIS

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.​