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As soon as my therapist sees me walking through the door, he knows I’ve got a dream story to tell him. We’ve been doing this for a year, now. He’s got enough material to make H.P. Lovecraft sound like Roald Dahl already, but my mind continues to frighten us both.

“You look like crap. Sit down,” he says, nodding at the sofa.

I sink into it, fingers splayed and registering the rough fabric. It’s something for me to hold on to while I dig into my memories of last night.

“Is your recorder on?” I ask at the same time…

Photo by Pereanu Sebastian on Unsplash

This is what you’ll need. You’re in the big leagues now, baby.

I’ve been on Medium for long enough to almost drown in all the How To articles and nifty, 4-minute listicles about how to become a better writer. Don’t get me wrong, they’re all nicely written, digestible pieces — itsy bits worth skimming over your morning coffee. But you need more, if you want to become a fiction writer.

Perhaps what I’m about to say isn’t all that better, either, but it is all the advice I can give with honesty, without occupying the space of a novella, and it’s based on my own experience. You see, some years ago, I…

Photo Attribution: James DeMers/Pixabay

Or how a creepy phone call can change everything. (Second Prize Winner May Writing Prompt Contest)

Moving into a new house would usually trigger her anxiety, but Rosie has found genuine comfort and peace here. Her therapist suggested that she try keeping a journal — as if writing about what she had for breakfast would make the recovery easier. It wouldn’t. Only time can fix her, to an extent. There is only so much to heal after Nathan’s abuse.

At least she’s free of him, now. She hasn’t checked his Facebook profile in three months. If that’s not progress, what is?

This townhouse keeps her busy and quite happy, even. She got this place for a…

March 23rd 2015, London, United Kingdom

Farron was telling me something about black holes and how Stephen Hawking theorized that they could be portals to different universes. Then the heat crept into my throat, the sweat bloomed on my temples, and now here I am... I don’t yet know where “here” is.

I’m in a small room. It used to be an office annex, I think. The carpet is originally black beneath the thick layer of dust. Cobwebs decorate all possible corners and joints, in lazy curves of milky white and grey. There could be spiders here too, but I…

March 14th 2015, Paris, France

To tell you the truth, “Dora the Explorer” was never an accurate depiction of my life. Then again, if it were, it would have garnered a completely different audience. One of the writers was a close friend of mine. But he co-wrote a children’s show, not my personal tale of all that is weird and twisted in this world… and all the other worlds, while we’re at it. That Dora is better off, with her little monkey friend, her talking backpack, and her arch-enemy, a fox. She’s lucky.

I’m not that Dora. The only thing…

© 2007, Musée du Louvre / Thierry Olivier

I used to do this series on Instagram, and I’m still flirting with the idea of a podcast on the subject. In the meantime, I figured it would be nice to do it on Medium, as well, because it gives me room to expand on each topic.

Loving all things of the occult and supernatural, I’ve amassed an interesting collection of books and encyclopedias, all filled with beastly creatures and lore that spans back thousands of years. …

My father in the grey suit, yours truly in the middle, my mother in the sassy red blazer, with our godson and his wonderful mother. I think I was nine or ten here, judging by the terrible haircut.

My father was a good man, though he had many faults. I’m probably describing 90% of the world’s population, but it’s the first line that comes to mind when I think about him. He was at least partially responsible for the person that I am today, and, for that, I will always be grateful. I will always thank him for the good, the bad and the horrible.

Last year, he died. Though we all saw it coming eventually, it still blindsided me. I’d only seen him once, the month before, after seven years. Yes, seven years. In order for you…


The challenges and rewards of being an invisible creator

Most of us (and by “us” I mean aspiring authors) have day jobs to help pay the rent, the mortgage, the bills, the food on the table, the monthly Spotify and Netflix subscriptions, along with many other bits and bobs that we can no longer live without — or don’t want to, for that matter.

After all, what’s the fun in living if you can’t make the most of these little pleasures, right?

Quick note, before I dig in: if any of you reading this scoff at the idea of ghostwriters, don’t. They find a way to tell stories, and…

Raphael, A Version (Illustration, graphic markers & black ink on Bristol paper, A3) // ©Jules R. Simon

Hello there! Long time, no see. I started this account with the purpose of sharing my stories, but life got in the way. There is an upside to this, though. I’m back, with more tales to tell, nestled between my ears and eager to come out.

You see, 2018 was a difficult year. I took a long break from London, to begin with, and, as much as I love that city, my stress levels have gone down since I left it behind. I’m in an intermediary period of sorts, and I’m taking this time to (1) clear my head, (2)…

It felt like Hell on the outskirts of Aleppo. The air was hot and dry and it scorched the inside of Samuel’s throat as if he’d been guzzling lava. A missile had just hit one of the Kurdish rebel camps on the southern border, less than twenty minutes earlier — an outpost guarding a path deep into the city through a series of narrow alleys, treasured by insurgents.

War had torn this once thriving and beautiful city apart. Samuel had visited in the early 1900’s, and had enjoyed one of the best lamb dishes on Earth in a small restaurant…

Jules R. Simion

Writer, Screenwriter, Artist, Genuine Nerd, Sci-Fi Gobbler, Science & Design Lover, Blunt Humanist, Adorable Idiot.

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