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



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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