I’ve always been a great reader, but I haven’t always been a great close reader. I didn’t even know what close reading was until I started college. I thought reading was all the same. Then, I learned the difference between reading for pleasure and reading a text closely. If you think it sounds simple, you’re right.

Close reading is exactly what the name suggests: a slow, close examination of a text. Think about the speed at which you read for pleasure. You’re probably just taking in the text, right? Focusing on the characters, on the plot, on the setting and descriptions, but nothing beyond that. Close reading examines more details regarding the craft of the writing: the length of sentences, the syntax and diction, the use of memory, metaphor, and simile, the form of the text and its narrative function, etc. Francine Prose calls this “reading like a writer.”

There’s absolutely nothing wrong with reading for pleasure. It still improves our writing, still expands our vocabularies, still stretches our imagination, and still improves the elasticity of our brains. Reading in general is so incredibly good for us. But close reading is set apart. It’s an intentional choice, a state of consciousness while reading that allows us to study and absorb more details of the text.

For instance, right now I’m reading Persuasion by Jane Austen. I’m not closely reading this novel. I’m reading it for pleasure. I still notice beautiful themes and intriguing aspects of the writing because I am a really good reader, but I’m not focusing on paragraphs or sentence structure or syntax or the use of internalization, etc. I’m simply reading a novel by an author I love because I want to.

Contrarywise, I’m rereading Time, a collection of poetry by Etel Adnan, that I first read last year before the first residency of my M.F.A. It’s a lovely collection of poetry that I didn’t really pay attention to the first time through because I was overwhelmed and in a horrible mental and emotional place. There was only so much reading I could handle at one time, and that meant this stunning collection of poetry didn’t really make the impact it could have. Now that I’m rereading it, I’m looking at line breaks, at imagery, at syntax, at the use of white space, at theme and subject matter, at parallels and overlaps, at repetition, association, disjunction. I’m not reading it to enjoy it (although I am enjoying it), I’m reading it to study the ins and outs of the writing.

Neither of these modes of reading are better than the other. Close reading is difficult. It takes time, focus, attention, energy. But we really can’t understand the craft of a book if we don’t closely read it. And that doesn’t mean we have to take an hour to read an entire chapter (although that may be necessary if the chapter is especially interesting and you want to better understand why), but it does mean that writers need to be intentional about their reading practice.

Throughout my college education, I’ve known students who have questioned and complained about what they were/are required to read, either because they just didn’t get/like the writer or because they didn’t understand how the book applied to their work. And while I can acknowledge that such issues are usually very complicated and multifaceted, I think sometimes it can boil down to students not trusting their educators. (And to be clear, this isn’t at all referencing the very great need for more diverse reading material in educational institutions, especially when it comes to the writings of Black, Indigenous, and other writers of color, queer writers, mentally ill writers, and disabled writers.)

I’ve known students who were actually bitter for having to read Shakespeare. And no one has to enjoy or like Shakespeare, but there are reasons that he’s required reading for high school and college and it boils down to this: if we, as students and aspiring writers, only read what we want to read, our growth as thinkers, as writers, as artists will be limited. I’ve known students who actively avoided any classes that might require them to read Jane Austen because reading her novels was beneath them, and that right there is exactly the kind of attitude that limits growth. Again, no one has to like Jane Austen, but being open to reading outside of our personal preferences is vital as a writer. We don’t have to like a book or an author to learn from their writing.

So today, in whatever book you’re reading, try reading it closely. Look beyond what you usually see when reading for pleasure. Look at the character development and how it manifests – is it through the dialogue or the interiority of the character? Look at the sentence structures – are the sentences long, short, are varied? Are they simple or complicated? What’s the writing style? Serious, humorous, overly dramatic, poetic, lyrical? Does the writer use a lot of cliche language, are are their images and details and descriptions original and clear? Are they abstract and surreal? Take one chapter (or one poem or one scene) and read it closely. Take notes on what you see, underline quotes you find interesting, circle words you think are important. Yes, I’m encouraging you to write in your books. Even add in your own thoughts and certain sections.

Then step back and look at the work. Ask yourself how differently you see the book now than you did before the close reading. Ask yourself how you feel about the writing and whether or not you feel inspired. Take stock of where you are in that moment. You might find yourself surprised at what you see.