Deconstruct Your Favorite Books

[This article originally appeared in the January/February 2026 issue of Writer's Digest magazine.]

A common writing tip is to read a lot. For most authors, this is like telling a cat to suck it up and have another bowl of cream. Reading for pleasure is, to most of us, a joy. Reading like an author, though, requires diligent analysis and is, like all aspects of writing, work. Hopefully, enjoyable work, but work, nonetheless. Specifically, assessing why stories you love are effective requires critical thinking, the central component of analysis. 

When you read a book you wish you’d written, start the deconstruction process by identifying those elements you admire—what elements work? A second read-through allows you to analyze how the author did it. The goal isn’t to replicate their work, of course; it’s to adapt the techniques to your own projects so you can write stories that shine with originality. You might be struck by point of view, pace, structure, the seamless sharing of backstory, how to reveal character through dialogue, or some other characteristic you want to better understand. Regardless of the element you admire, deconstruction allows you to move beyond the what to reach the how. 

Let’s say, for example, you admire the multiple points of view found in Robert B. Parker’s Night Passage. Go through, chapter by chapter. You’ll discover that not only is each chapter told from one character’s point of view, but occasionally, there are shifts in POV within chapters. How, you ask yourself, did Parker know which character should deliver which information and when? A close read reveals that the story unfolds chronologically. Whichever character is directing the action (or on the receiving end) provides that chapter’s POV.   

Parker uses seven points of view, which is a lot.¹ In fact, author and literary agent, Paula Munier, recommends that you include no more than five points of view lest the storytelling becomes confusing. Further, she says the protagonist’s (or narrator’s) point of view should predominate. Here’s an analysis of the points of view Parker used in the first fifth of the book. 

Night Passage continues to follow the pattern delineated above, changing perspective chapter by chapter, with minor characters having their voice dominate fewer chapters than major characters, and no character presented more than Jesse. This technique allows the reader to observe how various characters think, to witness cause and effect, and to feel the rippling tension of growing suspense as deadly events are set in motion all through a here-and-now perspective. 

The short story, “The Grass Beneath My Feet,” by S.A. Cosby, also shifts POV, but there’s only one narrator. The story starts with the second point of view, an unusual choice. The first line is: “Anyone who tell you that they don’t mind going to jail is a goddamned liar.” By the second paragraph, Cosby has switched to the first person, and the rest of the story is told from the protagonist’s POV. Here is the beginning of the second paragraph: “The Coldwater Correctional Facility van pulled up to the side door of a brick building that looked less like a mortuary and more like a bank. A short brother who hadn’t missed a meal since 2003 opened the side door and spoke to Officer Hardy. I watched them through the corrugated steel grate that covered my window.” Note that until we see the narrator peering through the window, we didn’t know he was a prisoner. This is a masterful example of showing, not telling. 

Some stories move at a leisurely pace. Others never give readers a chance to catch their breaths. In general, the more character-driven the story, the slower the pace. The more plot-driven the story, the faster the pace. As you deconstruct your chosen exemplars, monitor the placement of unexpected incidents.  

Under the umbrella term “plot twist,” there are three specific tactics, all related to an incident being unexpected: a plot twist (T), where the incident is unexpected, but not the opposite; a plot reversal (R),where the incident is unexpected and the opposite; and a moment of heightened danger (D), which could be physical, emotional, mental, or spiritual, or some combination: TRDs. The more often you insert a TRD, the faster the pace. Consider, for instance, author and my former student Justin O’Donnell’s analysis of the beginning of Bernard Cornwall’s historical novel, Agincourt.  

Thrillers typically have a very fast pace, and John Roche’s Bronx Bound is no exception. Author and my student Shea Farrell deconstructed it. Here’s his analysis from the beginning of the novel. 

Understanding how the authors created their chosen pace allows you to control your story’s pace as well. 

Structure refers to the framework that supports your plot. To understand how structure serves storytelling, consider Elizabeth Gilbert’s personal essay, “The Muse of the Coyote Ugly Saloon.”  Identifying the structure she used is easy—this is a classic bookend structure.  

Here’s the first line: “I was not the prettiest bartender at the Coyote Ugly Saloon.”  

Here’s the last line: “I was the prettiest girl in the whole bar.” 

Everything in this essay is well-structured. Gilbert uses topic sentences, just like we were all taught to do in high school. For instance, she writes these sentences, each of which sets out a new topic she goes on to discuss: 

On page 2: “I gave a lot of good counsel at the Coyote Ugly Saloon.” 

On page 4: “After a few months, these were my regulars.” 

By page 8, we’re really getting down to it. She wrote: “There are so many secrets to getting a man to fall in love with his bartender, and so few of them have to do with mixing good drinks.” 

On page 10 we find: “There was a time, when I was a novice Coyote Ugly Saloon bartender, when I measured a good night by the number of marriage proposals I had received.” 

On page 13: “And as far as losers go, I’d just had my heart broken, myself. Everyone has his heartbreak story (and I’ve heard them all), so I’ll keep mine simple: I loved someone, and he moved away. I was inestimably sad.” 

From page 15: “Back at my apartment, I pull a wad of money from my jeans.” 

Also on page 15, and you’ll note this is the quickest topic switch of the entire essay, which indicates perhaps that money wasn’t that big a topic for her: “‘You don’t have much respect for men, do you?’ my brother-in-law asked me at the time of my bartending career. ‘You’re beginning to think we’re jokes, aren’t you?’”  

And finally on page 16, to introduce the conclusion: “When I was 8 years old, that same grandfather took me on a tour of the Matt brewery in Utica, New York.” 

Structurally, she introduces a new topic every two to four pages or so, with new topics coming faster as the essay reaches its climax, yet at the end, she reaches the same place where she began. Bookends. 

New York Times bestselling author J.T. Ellison used a bookend structure in her novel, All the Pretty Girls. The novel, about a sadistic serial killer, begins with a victim saying, “No,” and ends with the detective who solved the crime saying, “Yes.” Isn’t that symmetry satisfying?  

Another aspect of structure you might want to consider is chapter length. Oyinkan Braithwaite’s novel My Sister, the Serial Killer tells the story of two sisters from the eldest sister’s point of view. The book is short, about 55,600 words. The chapters are short, too. Here’s the first chapter: 

From a deconstruction perspective, note that each chapter begins with a one- or two-word title. Note also the precise language. For instance, the verb “summons” communicates far more than “being called forth.” Remember, it’s the younger sister who is summoning her older sister. From that one word, we learn about the power dynamic of their relationship. And how about the way crucial information is conveyed through one word: “again.”  

Another book that uses short chapters to tell a complex story is The House on Mango Street by Sandra Cisneros. Through short vignettes, most a page or two, we share a young girl’s journey coming of age over a one-year period. Note also that the chapters are titled, just as in My Sister, the Serial Killer. Cisneros’ chapter titles do more than inform you; they alert you to the emotion fueling the topic. For example, chapter titles include: “There Was an Old Woman She Had So Many Children She Didn’t Know What to Do,” “No Speak English,” and “Beautiful & Cruel.”  

The structure in Ashley Elston’s The First Lie Wins provides insights into how to share backstory.  

The novel combines a linear and nonlinear structure, with most chapters occurring in the present. The novel uses a linear structure to p. 44, then nonlinear, slipping back and forth from the present to various points in the past, starting 10 years earlier. The backstory reveals how the character became the con woman she is by sharing information about six past cons. Because everything is labeled so clearly, this complex structure isn’t the least bit confusing. 

Why would the author do this? The past cons showcase the protagonist’s evolution from a desperate young woman who cons someone to get money to help her dying mother to a sophisticated player in a professional con enterprise. Only through deconstruction are you able to see the underlying framework. 

Deconstruction allows you to be in control of your own writing capabilities. For instance, I’m interested in writing more complex characters, so I’m now deconstructing books to see how authors reveal character traits without telling readers about those traits. This example comes from Robert B. Parker’s Cold Service: “I ain’t no criminal,” Vinnie said. “I’m a shooter. People hire me are criminals.”  

And that’s how you deconstruct books you wish you’d written.