By ZINNIA SMITH

STAFF WRITER

David Means was an undergraduate at the College of Wooster studying pre-med, when one fall day as Frisbees traveled across the grass, the afternoon sun poured through the small lab window, and the fetal pig he was dissecting lay on the table, he realized, “F-ck this.” He dropped his scalpel. Left behind the entrails. Stepped outside, called his father and said, “Dad, I want to be a poet.”

This is the story David Means tells about the start of his writing career. As it turned out, he likely made the right decision. He went on to get his MFA in poetry from Colombia University, and has since been published in The New Yorker, Harper’s, and Esquire. He’s published a number of short story collections (The Secret Goldfish (2004), Assorted Fire Events (2000)), and is currently working on a novel.

It is also a story that fits properly with Means’ writing. He claims that there is only two things worth writing about: death and betrayal. His plots need a central trauma. Otherwise, the short-story-structure is the beginning, the end, and whatever the reader takes-away after. For those who attended his Writer’s Series reading a week ago, this kind of obscure format may sound familiar. Yet, despite the ambiguity that is particularly present during a Means-live-reading, the impact of his stories is quite shocking.

For example, the slight confusion laden on everyone’s face Thursday night after hearing “The Tree Line, Kansas, 1934” (as if the room knew they heard a story that they did not fully grasp, but somehow still felt impressed) was likely more intentional than expected. Means says that a story is not meant to provide answers, but rather, its purpose is a “deepening sense of the mystery of life.” It is clear this is exactly what he aspires to create for the reader.

Those present at the reading were also lucky to hear a section of Means’ novel. Currently a work-in-progress, Means admitted to never before reading from a draft. It was encouraging that he felt welcomed enough to do so at St. Lawrence. The novel delivers an alternative history of the Vietnam War in which PTSD is curable with an experimental drug and reenactment of the traumatic events. In Means fashion, what counters the drug is really cold water or really great sex.

The section Means chose to read was fantastical, yet realistic. As he went on, the story and his voice built in momentum so when he ended, the room was left hanging in silence. Not an awkward or reluctant silence, but the same kind of silence that followed “The Tree Line, Kansas, 1934.” Everyone in the room was too busy grasping at the mystery to say anything. Or maybe, Means is just a little too smart for everybody– just one quick step ahead of the reader.

Means told Professor Paul Graham’s short story class earlier that day, “If you want to become a writer, you have to become obsessed with the weirdest shit.” As a writer, you need to learn how to observe all the oddities in the world, and then become obsessed with them. (Whether its sinkholes, bog men, or retired FBI agents.) Regardless of our own observational skills, Means gave St. Lawrence a reading that offered this attentive strangeness to us in the style of literary excellence.