What Bad Books Can Teach You About Good Writing

Every writer has read a book and thought, ‘How did this get published?’ But what if those books are more useful than we realise?

How many times has a book disappointed you? How many times have you rolled your eyes at books that are riddled with clichés, filled with flat characters, or built on a plot that falls apart halfway through the book? I can tell you that I have done this many, many times before. We’ve all had that moment of disbelief, when we sit there wondering how a story so flawed made it to print. But what if those very books are some of the most valuable teachers a writer can have?

Instead of dismissing so-called “bad” books, I like to approach them as case studies. Why? Because they offer us a mirror: showing us what not to do, highlighting the choices that weaken storytelling, showing us all about what not to do with characters, and reminding us of what readers crave most. Sometimes, a sloppy plot twist reveals the importance of foreshadowing. Other times, a lack of emotional depth helps us notice how crucial it is for characters to grow. These books give us space to question, dissect, and learn, without the pressure of trying to imitate something “perfect.”

This article explores how reading books that don’t quite land can sharpen your skills, strengthen your storytelling instincts, and remind you what kind of writer you actually want to be.

🧐 What Do I Mean by “Bad”?

The term “bad book” is tricky, and honestly, I’ve used it more times than I care to admit. But the older I get (and the more I write), the more I realise how subjective that label really is. A book that I find frustrating might be a comfort read for someone else. I’ve rolled my eyes at melodramatic dialogue while watching another reader hug that same book to their chest. I’ve abandoned stories with what I thought was tedious exposition, only to see them praised for their rich worldbuilding online.

Still, there are moments when I hit a wall with a book. Maybe the characters feel like cardboard cutouts, or the plot wanders so far off course I forget what the story was even about. Sometimes the prose feels overly precious, like it’s trying too hard. Other times, it’s just… flat. Clean, grammatically correct, even well-paced… but missing that spark that makes me feel something. I close the book and immediately forget I ever read it.

And when that happens, I used to get annoyed. But now? I try to lean in. Because here’s what I’ve learned: the things that bother me most about a book almost always reflect my values as a writer. When pacing feels slow or meandering, it’s because I crave momentum in storytelling. When the characters fall flat, it’s because I want emotional depth and transformation. If I cringe at the dialogue, it’s because voice matters to me, voice that feels real, raw, and specific.

Reading books I don’t love has helped me clarify what kind of writer I want to be. It’s like holding up a mirror. I ask myself: Why did this scene miss the mark for me? What would I have done differently? Sometimes I even rewrite a bit of it in my head, adjusting the tone, tightening the structure, giving the character a line that actually resonates. It’s oddly empowering.

So now, instead of tossing a disappointing book aside in frustration, I try to treat it like a lesson in reverse. It’s not just about spotting what went wrong, it’s about tuning into my own instincts and understanding my creative voice more clearly. And honestly? That might be just as valuable as reading a masterpiece.

Next time you come across a bad book ask yourself:

• What book frustrated you? What was it that made it frustrating?
• Was it the writing, or did it challenge your own preferences?

🔍 Learn by Contrast

I’ve learned more from bad books than I ever expected. There’s something about reading a scene that doesn’t quite work that makes me pause and think, “Okay, why is this falling flat for me?” It’s not about nitpicking for the sake of critique, it’s about sharpening my instincts. When I stumble over awkward dialogue, I become hyper-aware of what natural voice sounds like. I start to listen more closely to how people talk, how characters reveal emotion through subtext, and how every line needs to do more than just fill a page.

Bad pacing has taught me the importance of momentum. I’ve slogged through chapters that should’ve been cut in half or scenes that drag on long after their emotional peak. And every time, I think about how I want to build tension differently in my own work, how I can tighten the thread just enough to keep readers hooked without exhausting them.

And when characters feel flat or interchangeable? That’s a big one. I’ve put books down and thought, “Why didn’t I care about these people?” Usually, it’s because the characters lacked inner conflict or change. It’s a reminder to me that characters need to want something, fear something, struggle with something. Their arc has to feel personal and earned.

I’ve started keeping what I call a “reverse inspiration” journal. If I’m being honest, it’s just a messy list in my notes app, but it’s full of scenes that didn’t land and how I would’ve approached them differently. Sometimes it’s a rewrite idea. Other times, it’s just a sentence: “Don’t introduce a major twist without foreshadowing.” These little reflections help me grow. They turn a frustrating reading experience into something productive, and that makes every “bad” book worth reading.

🎯 Reading Critically = Writing Smarter

I used to think that reading a book I didn’t like was a waste of time. But the more I write, the more I’ve come to realise that those books are often the ones that teach me the most, if I’m paying attention. You don’t have to love every story you read, but you should read with intention. Every plot hole, every clunky line of dialogue, every underwhelming climax is an opportunity to ask yourself why it didn’t work, and how you might have done it differently.

I remember picking up a copy of Reading Like a Writer by Francine Prose years ago, and it shifted the way I approached books forever. She emphasised the value of slowing down and really paying attention, not just to what works in a story, but also to what doesn’t. That stuck with me. Now, when I find myself disengaged while reading, I don’t just move on. I stop and reflect. What’s missing? Where did I disconnect as a reader? What would make this feel more alive, more real, more satisfying?

Reading critically, especially books that don’t resonate with me, has trained my internal editor more than any writing course I’ve taken. It’s made me more thoughtful, more precise, and more deliberate in my choices on the page. So even when a book lets me down, I try to remember that it still has something to teach me. And that mindset alone has made me a stronger writer.

So, why don’t you ask yourself what was the worst book you ever finished, and what did it teach you about writing?

As always, if you’ve made it to here, thank you for reading! If you liked this article, please give me a follow!