Axel Taiari: I guess it’s fair play to kick things off by blowing a little smoke up your back-end. You are now Dogmatika’s staff writer. Congratulations. How did you score the job, and where do you plan on taking us with Dark Matter?

Christopher Dwyer: Thanks, it’s a fantastic opportunity. Dogmatika’s been a second home for my work; they were one of the first online outlets that published my short stuff back a few years ago. I had been published in a few magazines with their contributing editor, Alan Kelly, and we’ve been exchanging emails for the better part of six months or so. I proposed the “writer-in-residence” idea to him, and both he and Susan Tomaselli, Dogmatika’s editor, thought it was a great idea.

Dark Matter is going to be a fucking adventure, mark my words. At first I was thinking of serializing one of my novellas (or novelettes), but I really wanted that kick in the ass every month of writing something brand new.

Online publishing, in general, is so frigging beneficial to the modern writer. Too often I meet people and tell them I’m a writer, and typically the first question I’m asked is, “I’d love to read some of your work. Where can I find it?” Instead of them ordering a copy of a UK-based magazine I was published in over two years ago that’ll take six weeks to arrive on their doorstep, a few clicks of the mouse and they’re eyeball-deep in one of my short stories.

But yeah, Dark Matter is really going to break some new ground for me. My debut story, “Collide,” was this cool little noir tale that ended on such an open note that I’m surprised no one has asked me to extend it into something longer. In April, Dogmatika will publish a story of mine called “Guiltless,” which is probably the sexiest thing I’ve done. And by “sexy,” I don’t mean beautiful. It’s dirty, raw, and violent.

AT: [...]’sky ripped open like a newborn baby’s stomach.’ (from Collide) Your prose seems to be forever dripping with darkness, yet coated in a layer of near-poetry that makes the bitter pill enjoyable to swallow. Is it a conscious choice of yours to write in this manner? If so, why?

CD: It’s my belief that every writer takes tens of thousands of words to find their voice, their style. My prose evolved into something that’s lush and descriptive, but only after chucking page after page after page of failed novels and short stories. I like to think that studying with Will Christopher Baer and Craig Clevenger helped to define my voice, while a steady childhood diet of Stephen King and James Joyce allowed my subconscious to develop some structure of plot, pacing and rich characters.

Although I’m supportive of being economic with words, I’m all for thriving descriptions that really pull the reader back, punch them in the face and make them smell the words on the page. Common literature on every Barnes and Noble shelf across America lacks, amongst many other things, proper and effective description, imagery and atmosphere. If my narrator is sitting on the floor of a sleazy hotel room with a half-bottle of Jack Daniel’s and a dead hooker in the bathtub, I want my reader to experience all of that through the five senses. I want them to taste the bourbon, feel the dirty carpet on their backside, and smell the cheap perfume that poor said hooker was wearing.

To answer your question, yes and no. I spend more time than the average writer focusing on that all-important opening paragraph to make sure it’s nice and tight and just plan fucking perfect. Again, this is one of those things I learned direct from the hand of Will Chris Baer; without a hook, the reader is going to flop into a story rather than be sucker-punched. And we want them to bleed, you know? I remember reading the first line of Craig Clevenger’s Dermaphoria and just sitting in awe for a full few minutes. And that was just the first line. Brevity is important in well-written novel, but an effective writer consciously calls out their narrator’s surroundings.

AT: Noir, horror and dark fiction in general seem to be your weapons of choice. What I’m wondering is, why does darkness make you tick?

CD: I liken my work to my favorite season: autumn. There’s something about the cool breeze, slow lack of daylight, and bare trees that haunts my soul. Back in 2003, super-cool punk-turned-alternative rock band A.F.I. released Sing the Sorrow, which had such an effect on me that I couldn’t begin to describe. I even have the album’s logo (black leaves falling against a red sky) tattooed on my right arm.

Autumn is such a beautiful time, but really, what is the fall season? It’s the death of summer. Something gorgeous sprung out of disaster. I think it’s a metaphor for my work; there may be blood spilled frequently or relationships gone awry, but at the core I consider it my variation on beauty. The beauty is in the breakdown. Plus, isn’t the darker side always more interesting?

Ah, noir and horror. There’s just no putting me into a single box, is there? That’s the problem with me; I’m always blurring the line between the two. And I’m still not entirely sure that’s a good thing. I’m not sure if I’m a horror author writing noir or a noir writer penning horror. I grew up watching horror movies with my father. I lived horror. Every time an old “Friday the 13th” or “Halloween” flick is on the tube, I toss down the remote and watch it, even though I own all of the DVDs and have seen the movies at least three dozen times each. Horror is just engrained in me.

The noir influence didn’t hit me until about ten years ago. That’s when I first started reading Steve Erickson, Jim Thompson, James Cain and countless others. And speaking of Erickson, I saw him walk past me at the AWP conference in February. He wasn’t signing books, reading his work, or anything else. I was like a fan-boy, too nervous to approach him and for at least a few hours I thought it was just his doppelganger. But, no, my friend Caleb told me later that evening that Erickson was at the Black Clock table at the bookfair. Fingers crossed I get the chance to meet him someday.

Sorry, slithered away from the topic a bit. For me, noir came from Chris Baer and Bret Easton Ellis, Craig Clevenger and Chuck Palahniuk, even though those four authors aren’t strict noir writers. I imagine most of my work can be lumped into the “neo-noir” category or some bastardized version of transgressional / hardboiled fiction.

AT: The literary elite is sometimes quick to dismiss genre fiction as pulp, trash, a step below what some of them would like to classify as “literary” fiction. Would you consider yourself a genre writer? Do you think there really exists such a genre as “literary”?

CD: Like I mentioned above, I think I blur the line a bit. Many, many authors are just too goddamn tough to be locked into a single genre. Modern fiction is an amalgamation of multiple genres; it’s too hard to call me a horror writer or a noir writer. I’m on the verge of selling a short story to an upstart men’s magazine that’s pure horror, something ripped from slasher films with a cool “Twilight Zone”-esque ending. But, most of the stuff published under the Dark Matter moniker over at Dogmatika is going to be some type of pulpy, dirty noir. I’ll never be able to get away from either genre.

Many modern writers akin the term “literary” to stuffy New York literature in which has no direct plot with ambiguous endings. Yeah, I think some upscale literary work is devoid of emotion and makes me want to pick at the back of my eyes with a filthy ballpoint pen…but, to me, “literature” is respected. A writer like Steve Erickson skids the line between sci-fi, noir, and literary fiction, but would you call him a genre writer? No, I don’t think so. “Literary” is a relative term that can apply to fiction that’s decently intelligent and tells a good story. Yeah, some of my stuff is hard-line horror and there are stories I write which involve femme fatales and drug deals and private detectives, but I consider it all literary.

AT: You are going to lock yourself up to write for two weeks in a crummy motel. Make a list of what you bring with you.

CD: Two rolls of duct tape, a knife and three cases of Jagermeister. I’m kidding, of course. Effective binge-writing can last for twelve hours or twelve days, and you need to be prepared to stick with the story and not stray to watch an old episode of “The Simpsons” or get up to make a McDonald’s run.

A good writing jag, for me, involves multiple energy drinks, specifically Monster Khaos, which is an interesting mix of taurine, ginseng, and sugary, carbonated orange juice. Coffee is a must, for sure. I need to have my laptop, headphones, a solid playlist (typically post-rock and film scores, stuff like This Will Destroy You, Sigur Ros, Russian Circles and Clint Mansell), and the will to get something done. If you’re going under and there’s no absolutely goal, like “I need to get ten chapters done,” or, “this short story needs to be cooked when the paper is delivered in the morning,” then you’re fucked, to be honest. You can’t dilly-dally with a writing jag. I go into my writing nights with a clear idea of what I want to accomplish, or else I’m just wasting my time.

And yeah, this is crucial: turn off the wireless and put the cell phone on quiet. Although pacing back-and-forth is an ordinary part of the writing process, as is hitting the men’s room every few hours, hearing another person’s voice or checking Facebook is not going to help you maintain focus.

Because I do support myself with a 9-to-5 office gig, I can’t really take the time to slip over the wall into loopy land and lose myself in a story for days at a time. My binges now typically last from 10 or 11 on a weekend night ’til the sun comes up. Good enough for 7,000 or 8,000 words, a couple chapters, or a first draft of a short story. I imagine when I do have the opportunity to write fiction full-time that I’ll check into a Motel 6 for two weeks to bang out half a novel or so, but for now I can’t do that. Plus, I imagine, that can be unhealthy for a writer. Although for the most part I’m pretty aloof and I have no problem with being alone, I need human contact to survive. I have an adoring, beautiful girlfriend and a wonderful family, and they’re the ones who keep me sane. But yeah, later on down the line when this is my full-time thing, I’m sure they’ll have no problem with me driving to a small, off-the-radar motel somewhere in New Hampshire for a couple weeks at a time.

AT: Let’s go crazy and assume you can’t write anymore. Ignore the reason, pretend a warlock put an anti-writing curse on you. What else would you do with your life? Any secret dream job you’d like to have?

CD: For me, this is just it. There’s no other job I’d rather have than being a writer. I was born to do this, without question. I feel most comfortable with a thousand white yards of empty space and a full mug of coffee. I look back on my life, specifically my college years, and wonder, “How the fuck did I not write fiction?” It’s my life, to be honest. It’s how I define myself.

Early on, I knew I had two career paths: musician or writer. Yeah, I have a journalism degree and I’m comfortable with my corporate life, but my dream was to be a rock star or an author, and only one of those was going to happen. I have a fluid way of playing guitar and writing lyrics, but I’m a much, much better writer than I am a guitarist, and I missed too many developmental years in music to pick it back up again now.

Writing is my life and there’s nothing I’d rather be doing than this.

AT: What’s in your pockets for the next few months, other than taking care of Dark Matter? More short stories? Novels?

CD: Dark Matter will keep my readers warm and bound while I focus on the novels. I’ve got two in various stages of development: one’s very much a body-horror thriller, told in the third-person with multiple points-of-view. It carries a tentative title of The Aether Circle. It’s alien in nature, complete with apocalyptic glee. Should be a fun trip. I’m halfway through the first draft right now.

The other novel, which for now is just called “Novel_2009″ (because that’s what the Word document file is called), has completely stolen my heart. I am pouring so much of my heart, soul, blood and tears into this thing, and I have such high hopes for it. At heart, it’s most definitely a noir novel. Of course, there’s a love story layered in there somewhere and it may or may not have something to do with ghosts. I won’t say much more than that. Work is ongoing, with a tentative late summer completion date for the first draft.

I’m also putting together a short story collection in the coming months. I’ve been writing professionally for about four years now and I’ve amassed nearly 40,000 words in short stories. I have no idea what will happen to it or where I will shop it around, but it’s something that’s been on my mind for a few months now.

I’m not sure if this is the case with other writers, but there’s a short story that’s close to my heart that has not yet found its home. It’s called “Sometimes You Can’t Wait Forever” and it’s much unlike anything I’ve ever written before. It’s this gorgeous display of man’s undying love for his significant other, complete with a wintery dream world that drips from his narration. For me, it’s the best thing I’ve ever written, hands down.

AT: Homemade pipe-bomb strapped to your chest. You have 100 words or less to name one novel that completely changed your world, and to briefly explain why.

CD: Oh, boy. Well, I’d have to say Will Christopher Baer’s Kiss Me, Judas. I read the novel in two sittings: the first was during an extended lunch break when I was doing accounting for a healthcare company about five years ago, and the second was on an Amtrak train. I devoured the fucking book; I drank every last drop of that novel and let it seep into my veins.

Phineas Poe is the perfect unreliable narrator. Baer taught me how violence can be beautiful, and how a good writer can plant a love story in pretty much any fucked-up scenario. Man leaves mental hospital on Christmas Eve, picks up hooker. Hooker steals kidney, man falls in love. Where are you going to find a better plot than that?

AT: Plotting versus free-writing. Obviously each writer has his or her own technique for shaping up a novel or short story. Which side are you on?

CD: A few years ago, I was an advocate for outlining and plotting before I planted a single word down on the page. But, over those few years I’ve learned that it’s just a big stupid mistake to think out every detail and plot twist; sucks the juice right out of the story. Part of the process is shocking yourself. I like to think of it this way: you know how the novel starts and you have a vague idea of how it will end. There are a few signposts along the way, but for the most part, you’re driving without a GPS system. You need to figure out how to get there on your own. You don’t want to plan for the moment the battery gives out or one of the tires goes flat. You deal with these issues as they arise and the story becomes that much stronger.

For these two novels, the most I’ll plan out is the next chapter. If a cool idea pops into my head during work or when I wake up, I’ll write it down or email it to myself. I have a gigantic trail of emails to myself called “novel ideas.” Sometimes it’s as simple as “main character meets girl with pale skin and green eyes,” or more complex, like, “narrator figures out that his brother was the one who shot his wife.”

For beginners, I’d recommend taking a very cautious approach to outlining / plotting. There are some established writers that recommend free-writing for 15,000 or 20,000 words until some type of cohesive plot hits you. While that’s a fine process for some, it doesn’t work for me. Minimal plotting and trusting yourself is the way to go.

AT: You seem to have a pretty solid circle of writer friends that you met through workshops and crazy random happenstance. Has the feedback from other wordsmiths helped you grow as a writer? Now that your work is getting some attention and you’re getting stories out fairly frequently, do you still feel like you have a lot to learn about writing?

CD: I wouldn’t be where I am today without the help and guidance of my peers. I can’t imagine going at this writing thing on my own. For the past four years, I’ve been lucky to have a circle of friends that help shape my work and look at in-progress projects. They’ve been amazing peers and I consider them my brothers. These are guys that I could call up at three in the morning, asking to look at a short story before I spend too much time ripping it apart on my own. And, after all these years, they get to know your work…and your flaws. They know what’s best for your fiction and they’re there to help you along the way.

I still have a ton to learn about writing, as much as I hate to admit it. I like to think that I’ve finally found my voice, but something tells me that I’m going to keep progressing for years to come. I’ve been lucky to study with some of the masters, like Will Clarke, Chris Baer, Craig Clevenger, Stephen Graham Jones and Monica Drake, who have all imprinted on me various techniques and strategies that have helped them get to where they are today.

If I expect my idols and authors I admire to constantly step it up with each new novel, how can I not expect myself to progress as a writer with each new work? It’s been a long road thus far, and I take each new method to heart to see what works and what doesn’t. Part of finding your voice is discovering which strategies you leverage to fuel your own work.

AT: The crazy bastard who strapped the pipe-bomb to your torso isn’t satisfied just yet. He’s a pretty big hip-hop fan, and the art of free-styling. You now have five minutes to write him a story – doesn’t matter how long or short. No rewriting, no taking longer than five minutes. No cheating or your bones and flesh go flying. Ready? Now. Go.

CD: Oh, fuck. Let’s give this a shot:

She has the eyes of an angel. Fiery hair swings over her pale forehead, a swoop of rusted icicles dangling in the icy cold stare between the mirror and my eyes. She holds the gun to the side of my head, so close that its metal memories are implanted into the back of the gray matter between my brain and my skull.

I close my eyes, wall of black noise and purple static stitched with the firecracker pops of sweat and fear. She clicks the gun and I inch out of my skin, hope to see my bones rip from the tissue while my skeleton leaves a comet trail of blood and dust behind its rattling frame. Fade to white, soon. Trail of tarnished tubes frenetically splash plasma in eager pumps, and my heart is a bloody grenade. All she has to do is reach into my ribcage and pull the fleshy pin.

Thanks for making me sweat, Axel. That was not easy. (And thanks for the interview, too, it was a blast.)