When did you first
realize you wanted to be a writer?
ANSWER: My mother
taught me to read and write when I was three years old. I’ve always been an
avid reader and sometimes wrote my own stories for fun but, I never considered
pursuing a writing career until my second semester in college. I took a fiction
workshop, shared what would eventually become the first two chapters of my
first novel, “Water Flows Under Doors” with my classmates and professor. The
praise I received, especially from my professor, encouraged me to take the next
step.
How long does it take
you to write a book?
ANSWER: It
varies. I’ve written complete, full-length novels in a few weeks and I’ve also
had others take years to finish. I also constantly write notes for the story
ideas that float around in my mind. When I eventually decide to turn one of
those ideas into a real book, the time it takes me to write it depends on how
much of a foundation I’ve already established in my “idea books.” Some novels
are nothing more than wisps of smoke when I start and others are already flesh
and bone that only need a bit of polishing.
What is your work
schedule like when you're writing?
ANSWER: I write
every day, mostly at night after my kids have gone to bed. By that time, all of
my daddy duties are pretty much taken care of and I can give my writing my full
attention. Even before I had children, I always preferred to write at night. To
me, the world just seems quieter in those wee hours.
What is your latest
release and what's next?
ANSWER: My latest
release was the final book of my “War Angel” trilogy titled, “War Angel
III-Catalina.” Next, I plan to release an erotic novella titled “The Higher
Learning Curve,” which will be the very first book released from my “Reem After
Dark Presents” series of erotic books.
Keith Kareem Williams is the
author of 9 books & currently working on his 10th. He still resides
in his hometown of Brooklyn, New York where he delicately balances his time
between his responsibilities as a single father as well as the challenges of
being a full-time author.
“In
interviews, one of the most difficult questions I’ve been asked is, ‘What genre are your novels?’ because
honestly, I never write with any particular style in mind. I enjoy blending
styles and mashing different genres together in interesting ways. Basically, I
pen whatever is in my heart and soul. However, if I had to describe my style I
would use musical terms and say that I write Urban, Hip-Hop, fiction with the
rhythm of Reggae that crashed into Heavy Metal and then began to bleed Neo
Soul.”
One of
the things I'm most proud of is how my children look at me with pride because
I'm accomplishing my goals and doing the things I set out to do with my career.
They recognize and respect my passion. I write constantly and I already have
the titles & plots lined up for my next 54 novels. This is what I do and
I'm just trying to let the rest of the world know this. My ambition is to
become as legendary as some of the writers I admire. I believe that a GOOD
writer pulls you into their story. A GREAT writer makes the world around you
fall away as you read. The LEGENDARY writers tell stories that become a part of
you and linger long after you've read the last line of the last chapter. It was
once said that, the pen is mightier than
the sword. I say to my fellow AUTHORS: Let's advance our craft until it's
mightier than guns, grenades, bullets & nuclear bombs. If not, then put
your pen down and fall back. Those of us who are serious about this will run
you over as if we were riding in tanks."
Chapter 0
Blood-Smeared
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W
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ith his chest heaving and filled with the frosty evening air, Lenox
frantically opened the car door and got in the back seat. Surprisingly, he
still held a firm grip on the gun in his right hand that only a few hours
before wouldn’t stop trembling. The clip was still fully-loaded except for the
single round it had discharged just a few moments before. After that, it had
jammed which forced him to improvise on the fly. In his left hand, he still
held onto the kitchen knife he’d only seen for the first time that very night.
Every nerve in his body felt raw and exposed, making it difficult for him to
decide whether he was more alive than ever or disturbingly closer to death. He
strained his eyes to examine the front of his black sweatshirt, wet with blood
that wasn’t his own. Of course, in the dark he couldn’t see it but it was there
and he was covered in it. After what he had just done, it would have been
impossible not to be drenched in it. The sickening metallic scent of the gore
clawed up his nostrils and nearly forced what little food sat in his stomach to
creep up into his throat. He held his breath until the overwhelming wave of
nausea passed. He felt feverish and even the winter chill wasn’t enough to stop
the steady stream of perspiration that trickled down the sides of his face. The
pressure in his temples pounded in perfect pace with his racing heart as part
of a maniacal symphony in his pulse.
“Is it done?”
Hector asked from the driver’s seat.
He kept one hand on
the gear shifter and the other on the gun hidden in his jacket. Carmen trusted
Lenox but he didn’t. The jealousy that still pumped through his veins made him
wish that Lenox would give him a reason to kill him.
“Yes,” Lenox
murmured.
“Are you sure?”
Hector asked again.
“I said it’s done.
Now let’s go!” Lenox growled, annoyed by the hint of mocking sarcasm in
Hector’s tone.
There was something
sinister and malicious in the question that served as the harbinger of very
unpleasant things to come. There was a long, quiet, moment of tension before
Hector grudgingly took his hand off of his gun, gripped the steering wheel and
floored the gas pedal. The car skated down the icy, suburban road which was
lined with beautifully leafless trees, decorated with snow-covered limbs; a
sharp contrast to the bloody, crimson horror that Lenox had left behind in the
house he’d just run out of. While Hector drove recklessly to get them out of
the area as quickly as he could, Lenox breathed a sigh of relief and laid
himself flat across the back seat. He longed for his own bed but for the
moment, it would have to suffice. He lay on his back, let the gory knife fall from
his hand and closed his eyes, feeling safer being low enough not to be seen. He
attempted to wipe away the steady flow of sweat with his black-gloved hands but
became disgusted when he realized that he had accidentally smeared blood all
over his face. Even though the car swerved erratically down the dangerously
slick roads, fish-tailing as Hector sped around corners, Lenox drifted off to
sleep. What he desperately desired was a respite from the evening’s awful
events but instead, his dreams became nightmares that dragged him through
everything that had led up to the monstrous thing he had just done.
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