How to Read Nonfiction Like a Professor: A Smart, Irreverent Guide to Biography, History, Journalism, Blogs, and Everything in Between

Foster jokingly asks readers to imagine that they “want” to read nonfiction, acknowledging that enthusiasm for the genre is not universal. He argues that understanding nonfiction requires both grammatical competence and the recognition of form: the structural and stylistic conventions that govern different types of writing. He contrasts history and new journalism, comparing Ambrose’s Undaunted Courage with Tom Wolfe’s The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test. Both prioritize accuracy and engagement, but their methods diverge: “Ambrose’s claim to authority is the mass of scholarship that lies behind his narrative […] Wolfe makes his narrative personal the star of the show” (21). Nonfiction’s rules derive not from its form but from the type of content it presents.

Foster encourages readers to recognize what to expect from a given body of writing. Newspapers, for instance, contain an array of forms (hard and soft news, features, columns, editorials, advice pieces, letters), each governed by distinct conventions. He singles out the sports section as a “microcosm” of a newspaper, encompassing box scores, narrative features, and analytical columns. This diversity shapes pacing, tone, and reader engagement.

Foster considers why newspapers remain vital despite the industry’s decline. He concedes that modern audiences prefer shorter pieces but observes that journalism has adapted to new attention spans and formats. Local news remains indispensable because it delivers community-specific information that is unavailable elsewhere. He organizes nonfiction along a continuum, wherein daily news outlets provide the “first rough draft of history” (28), magazines offer a “second draft” that incorporates reflection and research, and books (particularly histories) are, in effect, the “final draft,” offering synthesis and context.

The author also distinguishes reportage and argument. Reportage strives to record events as faithfully as possible. Nonfiction, he contends, is fundamentally argumentative: Each work seeks to persuade readers of its viewpoint. Drawing on Stephen Toulmin’s The Uses of Argument, Foster outlines three elements central to persuasive writing: claims or theses, grounds or evidence, and warrants (or the logical link between claims and grounds). Because these elements can be weak or misleading, readers must learn to identify them. Doing so enables readers to “filter out a good deal of nonsense” (34).

Foster clarifies the differences between introductions, forewords, prefaces, and prologues, arguing that these often-dismissed elements deserve close attention. An introduction, he writes, means “up front” and may or may not be explicitly labeled. It can be written by the author or a contributor, and it may appear in every edition or only in specific printings. Forewords, prefaces, and prologues are etymologically similar yet subtly distinct. The foreword (which is Latin for “preface”) is written by another contributor rather than the author and often provides context or commentary. The preface, meaning “spoken before,” is an author’s introduction to the work, typically explaining origin or intent. The prologue (Greek for “before word”) is common in narrative works and offers a thematic or situational setup. Foster notes that each of these sections “gets you ready for what comes next” (36). He urges readers never to skip the front matter, as it is essential to understanding the text.

While prologues in fiction are often expository, nonfiction prologues can be narrative entry points. He cites The Boys in the Boat as an example: Its prologue recounts a story that inspired the author’s project, orienting the readers before the main text begins. In general, Foster observes that prefaces tend to accompany nonfiction, while prologues appear more often in fiction, though this distinction is not absolute. Some authors mix or rename these components, as does James Comey in A Higher Loyalty, which contains an author’s note, and Michael Wolff’s Fire and Fury, which contains both an author’s note and a formal prologue. Foster then examines several other examples (David Brooks’s The Road to Character, Margot Lee Shetterly’s Hidden Figures, Ron Powers’s Tom and Huck Don’t Live Here Anymore) to demonstrate the diversity of prologues and prefaces.

Foster now examines the front and back matter of books. He encourages readers to engage with these sections rather than “simply skip these elements just so [they] can get to the fun stuff” since they contain valuable information about a book’s purpose, audience, and credibility (45).

He begins with front matter, the materials preceding the main text. These include the title page, which identifies the work and its author; the copyright page, which provides publication details and legal information; the dedication, which personalizes the work through acknowledgement or tribute; the foreword, typically written by someone other than the author to introduce or contextualize the book; the preface, which the author uses to provide context about the book’s purpose and approach; and the table of contents, which reveals the text’s structure and major divisions.

Foster then turns to back matter, or the supplementary materials that follow the main text. These include appendices, which offer additional documents or data; notes, where authors cite or elaborate on key points; bibliographies, which list the works that authors consulted; and indexes, tools that allow readers to locate specific topics or names within the text. He explains how indexes are compiled (by tracking keywords and page references) and how to use them effectively. However, he cautions readers not to assume that an index is exhaustive.

In addition, he explores the function of titles in nonfiction. Straightforward, declarative titles are relatively uncommon, especially in journalistic writing, because they can suggest bias by presenting conclusions before offering evidence. Titles framed as questions invite curiosity; however, many questions are automatically answered in the negative. For example, the expected response for an article titled “Unwatched Pot: Do We Know Enough About Marijuana?” is “no” (49), unless the question contains the word “really,” and the expected response for an article titled “Is President [insert current model here] Really That Arrogant?” is “yes” (50). Foster notes that in periodicals, authors rarely write their own titles, but book authors generally choose their own. Foster reiterates that the front and back matter in nonfiction texts help shape meaning and reader experience.

Foster begins with sarcastic irony, assuring readers that while they are certainly unbiased, “the other guy” probably isn’t (51). This wry opening introduces his argument that bias is universal and that recognizing it is essential to reading nonfiction. He outlines several ways to detect bias in a text, beginning with disclaimers. Authors often reveal their meanings through what they deny. For example, in The Road to Character, Brooks insists that he doesn’t think social media is “ruinous” yet immediately qualifies the statement with a “but.” Such moments, Foster argues, reveal underlying predispositions rather than deliberate deception.

Next, he advises readers to analyze how writers use quotations and attributions. Who an author quotes (and whether those quotes appear in approving or dismissive contexts) can signal ideological leanings. Foster uses journalism to illustrate the complexities of attribution, including anonymous sources and statements given “on background.” While anonymity can raise doubts, it often protects sources from retaliation. Accuracy in quoting is likewise important; writers must present what people actually said, not what they meant to say, since misquotation constitutes “writerly malfeasance.” Foster then discusses the role of corrections and fair treatment in countering bias. Responsible journalists and authors must admit errors and issue clarifications when needed. Using President Trump’s public correction of his 2018 statement about Russian election interference, Foster demonstrates how acknowledging mistakes strengthens credibility. He encourages readers to assess whether a writer strived for balance, noting that complete objectivity is impossible.

Turning to rhetorical tilt, Foster highlights how emotionally charged diction (such as “claimed” or “status quo”) can influence perception. Recognizing such cues can help readers separate emotional coloring from factual content. However, he argues, bias does not automatically invalidate a writer’s argument. To illustrate self-awareness in bias, Foster examines Michael Pollan’s How to Change Your Mind, a study of psychedelics and consciousness. Anticipating skepticism about his subject, Pollan openly discloses his position as a cautious observer. His curious but skeptical approach embodies the transparency that Foster advocates.

Foster concludes that total impartiality is unattainable: “[N]one of us can ever be wholly aware of our slants in this direction or that” (62). Honest writers and perceptive readers recognize their biases and actively work against them.

Foster turns to the concept of proof, identifying several common forms: personal experience, professional expertise, eyewitness testimony, statistics, and expert sources. The abundance of online sources has blurred the distinction between fact and fiction, creating a climate in which all opinions are viewed as equally valid. Foster notes that expertise is limited: It “only exists in a narrow band of human understanding, and [his] is strictly literary” (65). To illustrate, he discusses baseball player Ty Cobb; since no one alive has firsthand memory of Cobb’s career, historians must rely on sources. Over time, such sources can yield more accurate portrayals. For instance, whereas early biographies portrayed Cobb as a violent racist, later accounts corrected distortions through newly uncovered evidence. Similarly, Ron Chernow’s Alexander Hamilton demonstrates how extensive research and temporal distance can clarify and refine historical understanding.

Foster connects these ideas to the digital misinformation crisis, citing how Russian hackers spread falsehoods during the 2016 US election to erode public confidence in political reporting. The internet, he argues, has produced “the Great Leveling of Information” (68), in which all statements appear equally credible regardless of their source.

Before surveying specific types of proof, Foster emphasizes that nonfiction writers (except memoirists) must incorporate other voices. He begins with eyewitness testimony, which can be direct (based on interviews or observation) or indirect (drawn from letters, diaries, or other first-person records). He recalls his own early reporting experience covering local sports, noting that attending events allowed him to capture vivid, concrete detail. However, this “reportorial presence,” which is essential for journalism, becomes less central in long-form nonfiction, wherein writers must balance firsthand description with research, analysis, and context.

Additionally, the author discusses statistics and data. He warns that statistics can be easily manipulated to support select narratives (for example, climate change skeptics who cite short-term weather fluctuations as disproof of global warming). Conflicting figures about student debt further illustrate how data can be framed to distort perception. Referring to the rise of “alternative facts,” Foster closes by promising to revisit falsehoods later in the book.

Foster emphasizes that structure (the organization of information) is central to meaning in nonfiction. While writers must remain faithful to factual accuracy, they are not bound to chronology. He cites John McPhee, “almost certainly our greatest thinker about writing nonfiction” (80), whose Draft No. 4: On the Writing Process explores how structuring gives nonfiction its coherence. Reflecting on McPhee’s early experience with outlines and the familiar school model of the five-paragraph essay, Foster explains that such frameworks, while rigid, teach writers how to think structurally.

To illustrate how nonfiction can depart from simple timelines, Foster analyzes McPhee’s Coming Into the Country, which organizes information thematically. He contrasts this method with the straightforward progression of biographies and histories, such as Undaunted Courage, Alexander Hamilton, and David McCullough’s 1776, which trace lives or events in chronological order. Other forms, such as science or discovery, are inherently less temporal. Malcolm Gladwell’s Blink, for example, uses a consistent structural pattern (beginning with an anecdote that illuminates human behavior) to explore psychological insight. Across these variations, Foster insists that structure “matters.”

The author then pivots to the issue of “fake news,” connecting it to the problem of structure, integrity, and trust in nonfiction. He contrasts the disciplined ethics of mid-20th-century journalism (as exemplified by Walter Cronkite’s willingness to admit his complicity in political misrepresentation during the Vietnam War) with the erosion of trust in modern media. The phrase “fake news,” he notes, gained prominence in 2016, though fabricated stories have long existed in tabloids like the National Enquirer, which have sometimes accepted payments to suppress legitimate stories.

Foster recounts Buzzfeed’s Craig Silverman’s investigation that traced viral political falsehoods to a small town in Russia. Both political parties in the US, he argues, weaponize the term “fake news” as a defense mechanism: Liberals dismiss right-wing information as fabricated, while conservatives, following Trump’s lead, apply the term to any reporting unfavorable to their position.

Foster also examines media bias, noting that “Fox’s slant is decidedly and, to its credit, overtly right-wing (nothing hidden there), but it frequently allows that partisanship to make truth a casualty” (96). By contrast, outlets like The Washington Post maintain rigorous ethical standards. While partisanship is unlikely to disappear, Foster argues that rational readers can resist manipulation by reading critically.

He closes with a brief coda on Robert Mueller’s 2019 report confirming Russian interference in the 2016 US election (a document that Trump nonetheless dismissed as “fake news”). The author urges society to “retire” the phrase altogether.