A simple fact of the writing life is that you cannot write well if you are not also reading well. Not reading more, necessarily, but reading with intention. Reading with your writer‑brain switched on. Part of the pleasure of reading it falling into the writer’s world, and it can be easy to think of the book as something that was just birthed that way. But actually the work is the result of a lot of decisions, careful building, and revision. When you read like a writer, you stop taking a book at face value and start noticing the invisible architecture that makes it work. You begin to see how an author builds tension without melodrama, how they braid timelines without confusing the reader, how they reveal meaning without ever announcing it. You start to understand all the work and choices that are behind a memoir that feels effortless. Reading like a writer is how you train your instincts, expand your stylistic vocabulary, and sharpen your sense of what’s possible on the page. This week and next, we’re diving into why this practice is essential for memoirists—especially first‑time memoirists—and how to cultivate it in a way that actually strengthens your own manuscript. Whether you’re mid‑draft, revising, or just beginning to shape your story, learning to read like a writer will change the way you write.
Before we get into today’s post, we wanted to ask—do you have a plan for actually finishing your memoir? If not, we know you aren’t making the progress you hoped for. That’s why we developed The Memoir Method Checklist. This free guide (and video training!) will take you through every single step you need from idea to published marketable book. Grab it now at https://pageandpodium.com/checklist
Learning to recognize a writer’s choices
Writing a book comes with many decisions—where to start is only the beginning. (ha!) Reading like a writer trains you to notice the choices an author makes and helps you make reasonable assumptions about why they chose X instead of Y.
Every book, no matter the genre, is built on a series of decisions. Big ones and tiny ones. Decisions about how to move the narrative forward, how to shape the voice, how much symbolism to weave in, how long to linger in a moment before picking up the pace again. Fiction, nonfiction, memoir, poetry—it doesn’t matter. All writing is a long chain of choices.
But when we read purely as readers, it’s easy to forget that any of this decision‑making happened at all. A finished book can feel seamless, inevitable, effortless. Reading like a writer is learning to look past the result into the scaffolding.
Why does this chapter open the way it does? What makes a particular sentence land with such emotional weight? You may never know exactly what the author was thinking, but you can measure the impact of those choices on you as a reader. And once you start seeing those choices on the page, you become far better equipped to make your own.
This is also empowering, as it reminds you that the polished book you pull off the shelf is not the same thing as a first draft, so there’s no need to hold yourself to that impossible standard. Writing requires navigating dozens of creative decisions that require patience, clarity, and realism about where you are in the process.
Reading like a writer helps you stay grounded in that reality. It keeps you connected to the craft as you move through each stage of your own book, one thoughtful choice at a time.
Learning to trust yourself
As I noted above, recognizing those choices and analyzing them isn’t about trying to read the author’s mind—that would not be possible. It’s about thinking critically about what impact the choices are having on you as the reader. This develops one of the most important skills of becoming an excellent writer—learning to trust yourself.
Self‑trust is the bedrock of a sustainable writing practice. Without it, it’s incredibly easy to slip out of creative flow and into endless self‑criticism and doubt, which is the quickest path to abandoning a manuscript altogether.
Reading like a writer helps you build that trust in a very practical way. As you pay attention to what you love on the page—and what you don’t—you begin to trust and believe in your own taste. You begin to trust that you can recognize what’s good, and what options you have when it might not be there yet.
Crucially, you start to recognize that none of those choices writer’s make are inevitable, or perfectly or “correct.” The writer could have taken a dozen different paths at any moment.
Once you see that clearly, something shifts. You, too, have options. That’s actually what makes writing difficult. (But worth it!) You, too, can choose the path that feels right for your story, and none of those choices are moral judgments. They’re not “right” or “wrong.” They don’t guarantee a book deal or doom you to obscurity.
This perspective is liberating. It pulls you out of perfectionism and back into possibility. It reminds you that writing is a series of experiments, not a test you can fail. And every time you read like a writer you reinforce the truth that you are capable of making choices too.
That’s how self-trust is built: one observed decision, one brave decision of your own, again and again.
Rekindling passion
This might seem obvious, but it’s worth remembering: reading while you write helps you reconnect with your love of the written word.
For most writers, the spark that first drew them to writing was a book that moved them. The magic of reading is what made us want to create magic ourselves.
The challenge is that once we’re deep in our own writing process, that magic can feel very far away. Writing is work.
Each step forward requires wrestling with decisions you’ve never had to make before, knowing full well that some unknown number of those decisions you’ll need to come back and change during revisions. It’s meaningful work, and it builds resilience and craft, but the constant chain of decisions writers make can be exhausting and discouraging.
Reading becomes a lifeline.
When you read during the writing process, you’re continually reminding yourself why you fell in love with books in the first place. You reconnect with the beauty, power, and possibility of language.
Reading like a writer helps you stay connected to your why—not the logical, strategic why, but the emotional one. The one that comes from your deepest sense of purpose and desire to create something meaningful. That kind of motivation is fuel. It keeps you moving through the hard parts. It keeps the fire lit.
Keep your standards high
Reading widely and deeply also helps you keep your standards high.
That is not to say that all published books (even from major publishing houses) are automatically guaranteed to be excellent. But reading books that operate in the same space you want to write in can give you a clear sense of the baseline: What does strong structure look like? How does a compelling narrative move forward with purpose? What does beauty at the line level feel like?
To aim for excellence, you have to be able to recognize excellence. Reading high‑quality work sharpens your eye and raises your expectations for your own pages. It also reminds you what’s possible.
But here’s the important nuance to this goal. Learning to recognize excellence doesn’t mean relying solely on what critics or large publishers like and promote. Quality isn’t owned by the Big Five. It lives in every corner of the literary world. Reading within your niche—books that speak to the same audience or explore similar themes—can grant important perspective. It helps you understand the standards of your specific corner of the market and, more importantly, the standards you want to hold yourself to.
As you read, pay attention to what each author does exceptionally well. Let those strengths inspire you and inform your craft.
Identifying what you don’t like
It follows naturally that you should also be paying attention to what you don’t like and why. The more you read with your writerly attention turned on, the more often you’ll notice decisions writers make that prompt you to think I would have done that differently. That is gold.
Think about a time when you’ve heard someone make a joke that fell flat. You recognized that it’s a joke in the context, but it didn’t make you laugh. Perhaps it was a little out of order or they started laughing themselves before they could fully make the punchline land. You can develop the same sense for writing—you can recognize what the author was trying to do, but also why for you it didn’t work (even if others might like it).
For instance, I personally really don’t like first-person present tense as a perspective in narrative in fiction. I understand from working with others why it’s a mode that many writers reach for—it’s immediate, intimate, and creates tension. But for me it also makes some other things awkward, limiting how you can use reflections and interiority. That trade off never seems worth it to me, especially with the kinds of narratives I want to read and write. That doesn’t mean the mode is wrong, because many books are published and enjoyed every year in first person present tense. Understanding how it works and saying “that’s not for me or my work” is incredibly liberating and empowering.
Exercising the language center of your brain
Language is built on patterns—patterns in how words fit together, how sentences move, how ideas unfold. We absorb those patterns the same way toddlers learn to speak: by being surrounded by them. And the more complex the patterns we want to create, the more exposure we need to complex, well‑crafted language.
Writing and reading use the brain in different but complementary ways. Writing asks you to generate patterns; reading immerses you in them. When you do both, you give your brain a richer foundation to draw from. You sharpen your instincts for rhythm, clarity, structure, and style. You become better at amplifying the qualities you want in your own work and quieting the ones you don’t.
Reading like a writer keeps expanding your sense of what’s possible on the page. It helps you stay connected to the voices and patterns that inspire you, and it strengthens the creative pathways you rely on every time you sit down to write.
But will reading stifle my own voice?
Sometimes writers will fear losing their authentic voice if the also focus on reading as part of their writing practice. It’s an understandable impulse. If you’re immersed in someone else’s sentences while trying to craft your own, won’t their style seep in and dilute what makes your writing uniquely yours?
The short answer: not if you’re reading like a writer.
Reading like a writer is not the same as learning how to imitate. When you read like a writer, you’re examining a book to ask yourself questions about the way the book is put together both on a large scale and on a sentence-to-sentence level.The goal isn’t to copy those choices. It’s to understand them.
You can also protect your voice by ensuring you’re reading widely as well as deeply. When you read widely—across authors, genres, and styles—you start to see just how many different ways there are to make meaning on the page. Instead of unconsciously mimicking one writer you admire, you build a richer internal library of possibilities. Your writing will become more discerning. More intentional. And in the end, more you.
But I barely have time to write…how can I do both?
Another hesitation writers have when considering expanding their reading habits simply comes from overwhelm. Writing a book is such a long and incremental process, adding additional reading other books into that feels like a lot. When you’re working on your first book, it can feel like there are never enough hours in the day. With limited time and energy, it’s completely understandable to think, I should spend every spare minute writing, not reading.
But as we’ve emphasized before, writing isn’t just fingers on keys. Thinking, observing, absorbing structure and language—these are all essential parts of the creative process. The quality of your writing time depends just as much on your thinking time as it does on your typing time.
Reading widely and deeply becomes a secret efficiency tool rather than a time thief.
Reading strengthens your draft, sharpens your instincts, and helps you make clearer choices on the page. It often saves you hours—sometimes weeks—of revision later. It also keeps you connected to your project during those inevitable stretches when life pulls you away from the manuscript.
And if time is tight (which it is for almost everyone), remember that audiobooks absolutely count. You don’t have to be sitting with a physical book to read like a writer. Listening while you clean, commute, or walk the dog still exposes you to structure, voice, pacing, and craft. It all goes into the same creative well.
But what if I really don’t like to read?
Occasionally people will have a story to tell and truth to share, but they have to admit that they don’t really like reading. Something about it doesn’t speak to them. If that sounds like you, we want to honestly and gently suggest that writing a book may not be the creative outlet that best fits your strengths. If you’re serious about writing yourself—especially writing a full‑length book—it’s important to stay connected to the world of books: how they’re shaped, how the industry is evolving, and how other creators are experimenting with form and voice.
If reading truly isn’t enjoyable for you, that’s a signal worth paying attention to. There are so many powerful ways to share your story that don’t require you to love the written word: hiring a ghostwriter, creating a video series, launching a podcast, building a talk or workshop. All of these are valid, meaningful forms of expression.
Reading is essential to improving your writing skills, and reading like a writer means seeing past the glossy end-result into a book’s structure and the author’s choices about how the story is told. Learning to read like a writer doesn’t mean learning how to merely imitate but learning the craft by example. We’re excited to announce the launch of our Memoir Method Book Club! Your first session is free, so sign up to save your seat here.
