reading these books will make you a better writer | the writer's syllabus ep. 1

A new “Writer’s Syllabus” series builds a practical reading list around one goal: using high-quality fiction to sharpen craft. Shayen frames reading as nourishment for writers—feeding on strong work, not “bad books”—and treats each recommendation like an intentional class text aimed at a specific element of writing craft. The through-line isn’t genre variety for its own sake; it’s the way certain novels changed her perspective on what fiction can do, opening “creative doorways” at the right moment.

The inaugural episode spotlights books that reshaped her approach to voice, character, structure, and the handling of reality. Mariana Enríquez’s “Our Share of Night” (translated by Megan McDow) is praised for epic scale paired with richly drawn characters, while leaning into horror and historical portraiture of Argentina’s military dictatorship. The novel’s disturbing ritualistic child abuse is described as purposeful rather than gratuitous, and Enríquez is credited with transcending multiple traditions—love story, family saga, magical realism, and Stephen King–style horror—by building a unique, spiritual, complex lore. The call for an HBO-style limited series underscores how cinematic and expansive the book feels.

Essa M. Emeg’s “Eileen” shifts the focus to character work. Set in a juvenile prison in the 1950s or 60s, the story follows Eileen’s fascination with a new secretary, Rebecca, and the horrific consequences that follow. The structure is described as deceptively simple and mostly linear, using a familiar pulp-like setup to lure readers into false security before delivering an unfamiliar character. Emeg’s key craft move, as framed here, is refusing to apologize for Eileen—no moral hand-washing, no emotional steering—so readers are trusted to see humanity inside grotesqueness.

Bernardine Evaristo’s “Girl, Woman, Other” is recommended for unconventional structure and line-level experimentation. With multiple Black women and non-binary characters in the UK, the book builds and unravels a “web” of relationships through short, character-centered chapters. Evaristo’s stylistic choice—using line breaks instead of standard sentence-ending periods—turns a potential obstacle (reading a long book without periods) into a rhythmic flow that rewires the reader’s expectations.

Kav Akbar’s “Murder by the Book” is singled out for poetic instincts that drive both structure and sentence-level revelation. The protagonist, Cyrus, an Iranian immigrant’s son grappling with addiction, becomes obsessed with whether death can mean anything after his mother’s plane was shot down by the US military. The novel’s lyrical clarity, simultaneous cleverness and devastation, and an ending described as weird but mind-blowing all point to a writerly method where each sentence feels “necessitated” by the one before.

Other picks expand the craft lesson into reality-bending technique. Alexander Chee’s “You Can Have a Body Like Mine” is framed as uncanny—real enough to feel familiar, but not quite real enough—turning everyday elements like reality TV and advertising into something forbidding. Naga’s “If an Egyptian Cannot Speak English” deconstructs a boy-meets-girl premise through alternating vignette perspectives, delivering rich characterization in a brief, lyrical form.

Finally, Emily Fridlund’s “History of Wolves” is treated as the personal benchmark book. Read during a transitional period between writing styles and genres, it provided clarity about the kind of story she wants to write. The novel’s quiet, eerie atmosphere, nonlinear but gently structured design, and organic-feeling character perspective set a “bar of quality” for her—less about universal acclaim and more about alignment with her own artistic aspirations.

The episode ends by inviting viewers to submit writing struggles via a Google form, promising future recommendations tailored to specific craft needs.