The Writing Room

The Writing Room
by Keith Kareem Williams

The notes and loose sheets of paper take up the majority of the space on the bed which is fine. It’s not like I get much sleep there anyway. Those stories that haunt me have loud voices and they have taken up permanent residency in my head. Late at night, behind my closed bedroom door is where the magic happens. The empty pages beg to be covered with the creativity that sometimes courses through me so I take my pen in hand and bleed ink when I can.

On the best nights, nothing but the paper, my thoughts and the writing-hand that connects them exists. On those nights, all that matters are the things I have to say being expressed the way I need to say them, translated into something that the rest of the world can understand. The rhythm of the sentences blend together harmoniously like music. Paragraph after paragraph form perfect chapters where the plot continues to build dramatically and make perfect sense. Those are the times when my hands can hardly scribble down words fast enough to keep up with my mind.

Then, there are the nights when I just can’t get it right, not even if I choke in clouds of cigar smoke or drown in alcohol. The pages remain blank and almost seem to mock me. It feels as if they have to power to block my thoughts. I’ve always said that I find inspiration in the strangest places, always when I’m seconds away from giving up. That’s because I have a muse that haunts me. She understands what I’m doing and does not disturb at all. She pushes the scattered papers aside so that she can have space beside me. I don’t mind. I wasn’t doing anything with them anyway. She throws a thin scarf over the lampshade to dim the lights so that it’s dark enough for her to sleep but still bright enough for me to write.