Takeaways in stories

When reading a manuscript or a dummy that I plan to prepare for submission to publishers, I’m always asking questions. Those questions can make their way into the edit letter I send to the creator.

One thing I ask of a story is, what is the takeaway? What does the creator want a reader to know or feel after finishing this story? What do they want the reader to come away with?

A takeaway can sometimes be confused for a lesson or a moral, but it’s different. A lesson is something you decide in advance, and then build a story around. For example: “kindness matters,” “be yourself,” “don’t give up.” You pick the lesson first, and the plot and characters come from it. Often, these stories come across as heavy-handed or didactic, especially in kidlit.

The takeaway is different. It’s what’s left over after the story has actually happened to a specific character, in a specific situation, and it can only be named once the story is real.

I never tell a writer to go back and “add the lesson.” What I’m asking instead is: now that this story exists, what does a reader walk away with? Sometimes that’s obvious to the writer, and it just needs to be trusted, rather than second-guessed. Sometimes it’s unclear, and that’s worth sitting with, because if the writer can’t say what a reader takes from it, the reader probably can’t either.

A takeaway ripples underneath the story, in what happened, and to whom and why it mattered.

What can a takeaway be?

Some examples of what I mean by a takeaway, as opposed to a lesson are: a character who finally asks for help and finds out the people around her wanted to be asked. A character who gets the thing he thought he wanted and discovers it doesn’t fix what he thought it would. A character who learns that her anger was protecting something softer inside her heart. A character who realizes the version of the story she’d been telling herself about her own family wasn’t quite true.

This applies to funny books too! A good story with humor and heart still has to have a takeaway, otherwise it will be forgettable. Funny books that stay with people have something real underneath the jokes. The humor might be the reason a reader picks the book up and keeps turning pages, but the takeaway is what keeps it on their shelf years later.

Revising with a takeaway in mind

When a writer can't name the takeaway, I ask (and ask that they ask of themselves) questions like:

What does the character have at the end that they didn't have at the start—something internal?

What would this character have said about themselves on page one, and would they still say it by the last page, and if not, what changed their mind?

If you cut the last page, what would a reader be left wondering, and does that wondering point toward substantial?

Can you describe the story to me out loud, in a few sentences, the way they'd tell a friend what it's about?

Sometimes, especially in early drafts, the honest answer is that the takeaway isn't there yet. Often, this means something earlier in the story needs to change, like a choice a character makes, a scene that's doing plot work and nothing else, or moments that have been smoothed over when they should be lingered in for emotional impact.

When I ask a creator what the takeaway of the their story is, I’m asking them to look at what they made, and tell me what it does, or what it’s meant to do. If the answer is murky, that’s information about where to revise toward next. I can't write a pitch, a synopsis, or a submission letter around a takeaway I can't name. I want—and every reader wants—to close a book carrying something new. That’s the takeaway.

Glimmers to share

✨I recently cleared out the Goosebumps section at the excellent NYC bookstore, McNally Jackson.

✨Sunset walks along the city waterfront. Best when paired with dessert from Baked Bakery.

✨ Back-to-school book displays all over the city, like this one at Books are Magic.

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Birthdays

It’s my birthday today! I unashamedly take birthdays very seriously—my own, and everyone else’s, no matter the age.

I find birthdays wonderful, and not only because of the cake and presents. I love the very premise of them—we’ve collectively agreed to set aside one day a year for each person, and to celebrate them specifically.

There are many things I like to do on my birthday, or during my birthday weekend (I stand by this!): I get an iced chai latte from a certain coffee shop. I wear one of my favorite summer sundresses. I listen to summer music and blow bubbles on the sidewalk. I eat chocolate cake with vanilla frosting and strawberries. And I write, because it makes me feel more connected to myself and to others.

As I’m celebrating this day, in the ways that are important to me, and thinking about birthdays as the most ordinary, joyful argument for specificity we have, I’m coming back to an artistic note I’ve been giving writers and artists quite a lot lately.

Specificity makes a piece of art stand out

In my work, I see the generic all the time. It’s common to read manuscripts where two characters have a long conversation and nothing in it tells me who either of them is. The dialogue is clean, grammatical, and sometimes funny, but it could be lifted out and dropped into any other manuscript without anyone noticing. It’s not unusual to see an illustration brief that says “a girl and her pet cat”, and what comes back is exactly that: a girl, a cat, competently rendered, yet belonging to no one specific. There aren’t details that say this girl, and this cat.

This is the hardest kind of work to critique, because there’s often nothing wrong with it, exactly. It’s just that it could be anyone’s. It could be any story, any character, any day in any life.

The generic in storytelling is rarely a failure of skill, but I think it’s a lack of attention. Something general is something that’s safe. It’s the placeholder that’s reached for when a writer or artist hasn’t decided, or hasn’t tried to decide, who this character actually is, and what their world is. It’s possible, and even common, to finish a whole story or an entire portfolio with placeholders.

The specific is the universal

I think some creators believe that the barer a character or a piece is, the more room there is for a reader or viewer to map themselves and their own experiences onto it. But the opposite is true: the more specific you get, the more universal the work becomes.

A character who “wants love” is no one. A character who wants her best friend to call her back before Monday morning, because she needs a shoulder to cry on after a break-up, who keeps picking up a phone she’s promised herself she won’t check until she shoves it in her messy closet, is recognizable, because it’s exact. There are details that make a character whole, not empty.

Readers won’t connect with a character because the character is an identical copy of the person. Readers connect when they see a character they recognize, which only comes from creating a character, or a setting, or a conversation that does the work of feeling real and authentic.

I try not to simply say “add more detail,” in edit or art notes. I try to be exact in explaining what needs to happen, and why. Specificity isn’t about adding more in order to check a box. It’s about intentional selection. The details that work are the ones that are particular components of a fully realized character.

This is true in illustrations, too. Specificity in a piece of art is what makes it come alive, and what distinguishes it as the artist’s. This is how illustrators stand out, in their portfolios and their pieces—they create work that could only come from them.

Question as you create

If you’re making something right now, I have questions that you can ask of yourself, and of your work—as always, honestly and unflinchingly, even if the answer means you have to go back and revise.

When you look at what you've written, do you see a character, or do you see a type, with a name added on? Do you see a world, or an accumulation of random elements that you added for the sake of finishing a scene? Is your art showing a personality, or completing a prompt?

Take it line by line. Each piece of dialogue, each scene, each flourish, and ask, could it belong to any character in any story, or only to this one? Is there enough in how each character speaks, in what they notices, in the single object on the shelf, for a reader to point and say, that's “this character, I'd know them anywhere?” If a line would sound the same coming from another character, it isn't theirs yet. If the visual scene would look the same in another book, it isn't this world yet.

Flannery O’Connor said, “the longer you look at a single object, the more of the world you see in it.” Her whole argument was that the specific isn’t the opposite of the big, universal feeling. It’s the only aperture wide enough to let that feeling through.

Why we celebrate one at a time

In storytelling, it’s not enough to say that a character likes cake on their birthday. What flavor of cake, and what kind of frosting, and what do those details say about their personality, their history, their ideals? Why does the character choose a particular outfit—not just because “it’s their favorite,” but what that clothing makes them feel about themselves when they wear it, and how they want to be seen. What music is on their playlist, and why?

This is why we celebrate birthdays the way we do, as opposed to one enormous party for all of humanity. We take note of individuals, and what makes them precisely and uniquely them. We are all specific. And so is good art.

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Sketching

When I’m at a coffee shop, on the subway, or with the arrival of June, on a picnic blanket in Prospect Park, I like to notice the artists. They are the ones with paper, sketchbooks, and sometimes a small collection of tools or a specialty canvas, drawing whatever they see they’re inspired by. I can’t speak for all artists, and they’re not only one type, but I know enough illustrators to understand that sketching, drawing, painting, etc. for one’s own sake can be enough. The goal of every sketch is not necessarily to become a piece of final art. And even the final art is not always meant to be put on display for others to see.

The process is a major, if not primary, part of the artistic act. Sketches are easily torn from notebooks, or kept as a record of something that is not intended to be shared elsewhere.

For the writers, journaling is similar. I certainly do enough of that, with the worn notebooks full of messy handwriting that’s indecipherable even to myself later when I try to read it back. But when I think about writing a story, it’s not the same. There is a journey, but the destination is what feels like it matters most—at least that’s true if a writer wants to get their work published.

Versus the writing process

I find there’s something about that goal that can make the writing process feel overwhelming, lofty, and loaded with high stakes. Every draft, every revision has to provide something worthwhile. Nothing can be wasted, because then that’s precious writing time that was spent on something that cannot be used for the final, hopefully published, draft. That’s how I’ve been feeling lately about my work.

There came a moment recently when I was up late on a Saturday night, with a draft of my story (this might be the fifth draft at this point, but I don’t like counting), and I had a realization that was very uncomfortable.

I was plodding through a scene, boring myself with my descriptions that read as trite and familiar, and certain that the momentum and dread I was hoping to build was absent. I was referencing my extensive outline, with detailed plot beats that I’d fastidiously constructed, hoping that if this novel had a plot (which is not my strength), then it would be good.

I’d also just come off weeks of work in which I’d been discussing, at length, with peers and colleagues what makes a children’s book stand out enough to be acquired. Especially now, especially for creators who want traditional kidlit deals in this very, very tough market.

I was imagining this scene in my head. I can picture the setting of this novel, which has a significant emotional resonance, and which I have persistently felt my scribblings were not doing justice to. At that moment, I was reminded of a piece of advice that I give writers.

Sometimes, the best thing you can do for a project that isn’t working is to drag the file to the trash, and start over.

I stopped typing and frowned at the page, as all sad writers in movie scenes often do.

I realized that I was writing a book. But I wasn’t telling a story.

Writing a book is not necessarily telling a story

Painful epiphanies usually beget even more painful epiphanies, and this one did not disappoint.

I had been writing a book about a place that has haunted me since I was a teenager, about a protagonist who was experiencing circumstances too close to my own, with a supporting cast and subplots that were easy for me to recreate from the suburban Connecticut town I grew up in, but which weren’t doing much else except to serve my own nostalgia.

It’s difficult not to feel like I’d spent many words, across drafts and months, journaling. Mostly about ghosts.

Where were the through lines, the takeaways, the feelings that I wanted the reader to experience by the time they close the book? Technically, they were present. I’d written them out at the top of my outline. I put them in bold, as a little north star guiding me along the way.

Writing from a haunted place feels like it should be enough. Emotional truth, personal resonance, a real location with weight are actual ingredients.

But they weren’t working. And it wasn’t just this draft, or this scene. It was the entire make-up of this document, and the ones that came before it. I had been writing a book, but I had not been telling a story.

I know I’m not the only one who has done this.

An uncomfortable question

If you’re in the middle of a project right now, I want to wonder something aloud: are you telling a story, or are you compiling a book? Because those are not the same thing. The honest answer is sometimes very hard to find, and even harder to accept once you have it.

Compiling a book happens when there is material, which may be rich and meaningful, that is being arranged and rearranged in order to finish the task of writing scenes from beginning to end.

However, storytelling is different. Telling a story means there is someone who wants something, and something standing in the way, and there is a reason it matters. It means that when you remove yourself from the equation—your memories, your feeling, your need to get something down, your desire to get published—something is still happening. The character has somewhere to go. Something occurs, and it changes them, or fails to, and either way the reader feels the weight of it.

In stories, the emotional truth is recognizable. Stories are about connection. They are about understanding ourselves, one another, and the world in which we live. Stories give a reader meaning.

If I want my story to be read others, then it has to mean something.

And so I keep thinking about this project that I am abandoning. I don’t want to twist the pieces into shapes that look like a story, if I take off my glasses and squint at the screen. I want to tell a story.

I’m trying to view all of those pages as sheets of paper that can casually be torn from the sketchbook and tossed to the summer winds. Every page, and every word, was part of the process. In my job, I regularly encourage authors and illustrators to not be precious about their work. I ask them to be honest, thorough, and intentional. I’m attempting to do the same.

I’m envisioning the story I want to tell—not the book I think I want to write.

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I went to college at a school that had two campuses: one on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, and one in the Bronx. I split my academic time at each campus. And as such, each locale holds something enormous for me, even all these years later.

Fordham Rose Hill, in the Bronx, is a stunning, picturesque campus that has been immortalized in films for how quintessential the brick and the ivy are to capturing Northeast academic elitism. I lived in haunted dorms and took classes in even more haunted buildings. I took photos with friends on lawns that, if not for the poor digital photo quality of the era, would have been college brochure-ready. Fordham in the Bronx is many things, including a place that is a short subway ride from iconic Yankee Stadium.

There’s so much that I return to now, as an adult, without meaning to: places I half-noticed, sounds I half-heard, games I half-watched. The otherwise unconsidered sensory details that turned out to have been doing something quiet, beneath the surface, across time.

My friends and my family were Yankees fans, and growing up, we went to the games. When I was young and my father brought me to see the Yankees, we sat in actual seats with arm rests and cup holders to keep our iced tea safe. Later, it was the bleachers and cheap food outside the stadium, because when I attended Yankees games on the regular post-childhood, I was in college and I couldn’t afford a warm pretzel—much less the cheese sauce add-on that made the purchase worth it.

Fordham was not a “sports school” in the way some universities are. It’s New York, which is the city of everything, and the Yankees are just one of the many everythings. I wasn’t a baseball person, exactly. I was a girl who happened to go to college near a baseball stadium, with a dad and brothers and uncles who were Yankees fans, whose male friends and boyfriends and crushes were also Yankees fans. Looking back, especially from my current vantage point, I understand this is a different thing than being a baseball fan myself. In college, I wrote for the school paper, but never for the sports section. Those sports editors (all boys, only boys) were cute, but they could never understand what I was trying to accomplish in my Features section, and vice versa.

Then I graduated and my New York had nothing to do with sports, and eventually, my New York became too distant for too long. I did not watch baseball for quite some time—years. It went underground, as a game turned on somewhere in another room, a familiar logo on a hat, a rhythm I could hear through the wall of a bar.

Now, post-college and post-much else, I have three baseball kids.

My middlest is the one who plays like it’s his oxygen. My littlest is on a team, which he takes more seriously than most other things in his life. My oldest loves the game, watching and playing. And because of them, I’ve returned—at MLB games every couple of weeks during the summer, with the sound of a t.v. announcer in the background of my own apartment while I cook dinner, sitting on very uncomfortable bleachers at city baseball fields on Saturday afternoons, watching the plays with an intensity that I never knew I could apply to sports games.

Thanks to my boys, I know the 2025 stats for teams I couldn’t have picked out of the air ten years ago. I have learned the nuances of stadiums that I have never visited. I can recount the names of modern baseball legends better than I can name some my children’s friend’s parents, and I can, with confidence, expound upon the quality of the 2026 Mets starting lineup.

Along with baseball, my boys love a good bit. Right now, one of my favorites is how the eldest coaches the littlest while playing catch, regularly, up to seven days a week when the weather is good: “There’s a ball, and there’s a glove. And the ball goes in the glove.” So helpful! I wonder (facetiously, of course) if the same could be said of writing: “There are words, and there’s a page. The words go on the page.”

The first time I mentioned my childhood allegiance to the Yankees, my boys were confused. None of them had considered that I even knew what baseball was. But still, my middlest joined a baseball team because he wanted to join a team. He got good at it because he practiced. He showed up for the MLB games because his family members brought him. He became a Mets fan in due course, and so did I.

Now here I am, memorizing the layout of Citi Field for the most efficient pathways to the best food places. Checking the scores on my phone to see how the Mets and the Giants and the Pirates are doing on a Tuesday afternoon. When the Mariners do poorly, satisfaction blooms in my heart. I’m still buoyed when I see a Yankees win and a Red Sox loss.

The things that shape you are not often evident whilst the shaping is occurring. More often, they sit in the periphery. You can pay attention, or partial attention, to something for years before you understand fully what you are looking at.

I think about this when I write. I think creative life is frequently made of things that have been circling for a long time before they’re able to land. The book you are going to write is already in the room with you, no matter when you begin the outline. The story you are reaching for may have been floating in your subconscious since you were twenty. The attention you paid to things that once seemed peripheral—the suburban ice cream shop, the overly-chlorinated pool under the blazing sun, the salty soft pretzels, somewhere in the background—was not lost.

Often, we do not know what we are looking at when it’s directly in front of us. But at some point, as a creative person trying to tell a story, we do know. We look, and we see with new clarity or vision or takeaway. Through lines become apparent, and they turn into stories we can’t help but tell, for reasons larger than ourselves.

The return is a major part of the creative process. We gather whether or not we mean to. The question is, whether you'll come back and look. There’s the leaving, the noticing, even the eventual sitting-down-to-write. But also the openness, when something circles back, to turn toward it, instead of away.

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Artemis II

Finally, there’s an unprecedented event that’s a joy to live through: the Artemis II Space Mission. There’s a tremendous amount of context to catch up on here, for anyone who hasn’t spent the past week and a half quietly weeping over Artemis II and the moon, like I have.

Though poetry works best when based in subtlety, I think there’s a time for explicitness to highlight the bewildering: Artemis II launched on the day of the pink full moon. NASA named the program for the moon goddess and the spacecraft Orion for the man Artemis loved and lost/possibly killed, depending on the version of the myth you read. Christina Koch is the first woman to travel beyond low Earth orbit and journey around the Moon. Victor Glover is the first Black man to travel beyond low Earth orbit. The crew requested that a crater on the far side of the moon be named for Reid Wiseman’s late wife. This is farther than humans have traveled in space, and yet, those of us still on earth have been a part of it in a way that’s never been possible before, thanks to technology.

This hasn’t only been a space mission; it’s been the poetic ruminations of four people experiencing the unfathomable, and sharing their reactions with their fellow humans in real-time, with the romantic language that I do not often hear used outside of my literary female friend circles.

Not only did the Artemis II crew transmit their messages, but we responded. In the way we’ve become accustomed to communicating, in social media posts and memes and timely newsletter posts (hi!) shared across the internet with a speed that is also unprecedented.

These astronauts did not only transmit into the void, they invited responses, with both intentionality and inevitability. They knew how to share, which turned into a profound feedback loop between those communicating and those receiving in a way that has never existed in this form before. Every other space mission, the astronauts went, and people waited for their return, only to be told what was experienced and shown what was captured earlier. This time, the chat was live. The astronauts posted, we responded, they saw us respond, and they continued the conversation, in a new kind of collective witnessing.

This crew, and everyone involved in this mission, took part in extraordinary science, but also, groundbreaking art. They’re indistinguishable from each other in this mission in a way that almost never happens. The science required the poetry. We can’t process what it means to see the earth from 300,000 miles away without reaching for language, without reaching for imagery, without reaching for metaphor. These are scientists at the edge of human experience, and we’re all discovering that science alone cannot hold what we’re seeing.

And then there’s the art that came from it—the poems, the haikus, the jokes, the images, the illustrations. The connections to stories, books, movies, plays, and more that people made as they looked at their screens, and up into the night sky.

One thing that struck me about this experience was the crew, specifically: their sincerity, their delight, their playfulness that went hand in hand with their competence and capabilities. These people have heart, and they’ve been wearing their hearts on their space suit sleeves, for all of us to see.

They’ve said things like:

“Ultimately, we will always choose Earth. We will always choose each other.” (Christina Koch)

“No matter how long we look at this, our brains are not processing this image in front of us. It is absolutely spectacular, surreal. I know there’s no adjectives. I’m going to need to invent some new ones to describe what we are looking at out this window.” (Reid Wiseman)

“As we get close to the nearest point to the Moon and the farthest point from Earth and continue to unlock the mysteries of the cosmos, I would like to remind you of one of the most important mysteries on Earth, and that’s love. And to all of you down there on Earth and around Earth, we love you, from the moon.” (Victor Glover)

“I hope this mission is giving you something that you can take and put in your pocket, or in your heart and mind that you keep with you, but it’s not because we want you to see what we’ve tried to show you. It’s because we want you to take this and build a vocabulary to explain the world to us.” (Victor Glover)

“It’s a bright spot on the moon, and we would like to call it Carroll.” (Jeremy Hansen)

The whole mission, when you strip it down, is a love note to what we are, and what we can do, and what we can’t stop reaching toward.

The crew returns today, and we will continue to hold the enormity of what this mission accomplished, and what it has made possible in the future, along with what it means to be an earnest human sitting in awe of what surrounds us. We’ll all continue to share ourselves—our writing, our art, our thoughts, our reflections—into the dark, hoping someone out there receives them.

I encourage everyone to explore the Artemis II Multimedia gallery. Which photos made you cry the hardest? Which made life feel both entirely inconsequential and infinitely precious at once? Which one unspooled a poem in your heart as you gazed at the impossibility of it all?

We are all, every one of us, part of this. Not as spectators, but as participants. We received the transmissions and we responded, and we made art and we cried in our kitchens and we sent the videos to the people we love and we said look, look at this, look at what we are. That's not small. That's the whole thing. Artemis summoned Orion to the moon, and somewhere in the mythology of all of this, we went too. Every person who watched, who wept, who wrote, who shared—we were in that window.

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Notes on Revision is a three-part series on the craft of revising story

Part Three: Line-Level Revision

In this series, we’ve moved from the structure of a story down to its through line—from whether the big pieces are working, to what the story is really about underneath the plot and character arcs. Now we’re going to zoom in farther, to the line-level revision.

Line-level revision is where most writers want to start, and I understand why: it’s tangible and satisfying; you can see a sentence get better in real time. You swap a word, tighten a clause, read it back. That immediacy is appealing, especially compared to the murkier, more destabilizing work of structural revision.

But there’s a reason to arrive here last. Line-level revision only matters when the story underneath it is truly, thoroughly sound.

The first thing to look at is voice. Voice is what makes your book yours, and no one else’s. It’s the quality a reader recognizes on the first page, the texture that distinguishes your story from every other story with a similar premise. In revision, one question is whether that voice is consistent from beginning to end. Did you start with one tone and drift into another? This happens frequently, especially when a manuscript has been drafted over a long stretch of time or across multiple iterations.

One of the most effective revision tools available to you is to read your story aloud. Your eyes will skip over problems that you will otherwise catch immediately when reading aloud, like awkward phrasing, sentences that run too long, dialogue that looks fine on the page but sounds wrong spoken, and repeated or overused words. For picture books especially—which are books designed to be read aloud—this isn’t optional. If a line is a mouthful, it probably needs to be simpler. If a passage has no rhythm, it needs to be reworked. Read it aloud more than once. Read it to someone else. Have someone else read it to you. Every pass reveals something new.

Word choice is next, and it matters at every length, in every format. In picture books, where you may have only a few hundred words to work with, every single one has to earn its place. But this is true in chapter books, graphic novels, and novels, too—the scale is different, but the principle holds.

In revision, interrogate your language choices. Is there a more precise word? Not a fancier one—a more accurate one. A word that tells us something about the character, about how they see the world, or about the texture of the moment. Is your word choice too generic, when it could be purposeful?

Are you leaning on modifiers where a stronger noun or verb would do the work alone? Are there crutch words you’re reaching for out of habit, or because you think they’re voice-y, like “just,” “really,” “suddenly,” or “very”? You’ll likely be surprised by how many there are.

So many writers craft gorgeous sentences: sentences that are genuinely stunning and striking, with evocative language and melodic wordplay. But beautiful writing and effective storytelling are not the same thing.

I’ve read manuscripts where the language is extraordinary and the story still isn’t working—because the writer fell in love with how something sounded and held onto it past the point where it was serving the narrative. It could be a passage that’s lyrical but redundant, or a description that’s painstaking, but slows the pacing to a crawl. Often it’s over-verbosity: several sentences doing what a few words could do, because those sentences were lovely. That attachment is understandable, but in revision, it’s also something you have to be willing to let go of.

The question is always the same in revision, whether you’re looking at an arc, a subplot, or a sentence: is this here because it’s doing a job, or is it here because I wrote it? Those are different things. And once you can tell the difference honestly, your revision gets sharper, faster, and more decisive.

When something has to go, let it go. Save it somewhere—some writers keep a running document of lines they’ve loved and cut, a kind of archive. I keep a page in Notion where I catalogue the language I’ve written that I adore, but have no current place for. That’s a fine practice: honor the work and wordsmithery. But let the story be what it needs to be.

One last thing: after you’ve revised the whole book, venture back to the beginning. Does it still work? We often tend to warm up in our openings, spending a page or a chapter or a few spreads easing in before the story actually starts. In revision, find the place where the story truly begins.

Revision, at every level, is an act of looking honestly at what you’ve made and deciding to make it better, and closer to what it’s capable of being. This matter when you want to sell your story to publishing houses, and then to booksellers and readers.

Every beloved book you’ve ever read has been revised, thoroughly and rigorously. Those books were worth it. So is yours.

Happy revising!

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Notes on Revision is a three-part series on the craft of revising story

Part Two: The Through Line

In the first part of this series, I talked about developmental revision: the work that checks whether the structure of your story is sound. Today I want to talk about something that sits at the center of that structure. Something that can quietly transform a story from competent to utterly resonant: the through line.

The through line is my favorite element of storytelling—so much so, it’s the namesake of my newsletter, and a North Star for how I approach the world beyond narrative.

A through line is the thread that runs through your entire book. It’s not the plot, but the current that runs underneath the plot. It might be an image that recurs and deepens each time it appears. A phrase that returns carrying new weight. A question the story keeps circling. It’s what makes a reader close the book and feel like everything in it belonged—like nothing was random.

When a through line is working, it gives a story the quality of inevitability: this ending was the only ending, and everything was pointing there all along.

A story can have a solid character arc, real stakes, rising tension, and a satisfying resolution—and still feel like something is missing. Things happen in the right order, but they don’t feel like they’re in conversation with each other. A through line is what provides that conversation. It’s the reason a story feels like a story, and not just a sequence.

One thing I especially love about through lines is that often, they aren’t planned. The through line might reveal itself after a draft is written. It takes noticing—looking again—at your story. Your job in revision is to see it, name it, and then strengthen it.

This is what I mean by revising toward something. Most of us approach revision as a corrective process—we’re looking for what’s wrong, and then we try to fix it. And that’s necessary. But revision can be approached with a perspective of building—not just moving away from problems, but moving toward a center of gravity. Every revision choice can be filtered through the question: does this serve the through line, or does it pull away from it?

That shift changes the nature of the revision. It can give you a compass. A scene that felt fine on its own might reveal itself as disconnected from the larger thread—and now you know what to do with it. A moment you weren’t sure about might turn out to be the exact right beat, because it’s doing work in service of the through line you hadn’t fully recognized yet.

How to Discover a Through Line

Close your manuscript and write down, in one word, what your story is about. Not the plot or the character arcs or the summary—the feeling. If you can land on that word, that’s your through line candidate. Now reopen the manuscript and read through it with that word in mind. Is every scene in some kind of conversation with it? Where does the connection feel tight and meaningful? Where is it missing?

Another approach: read your last page, then your first. What connects those two moments? What changed between them, and what stayed the same? The thing that stayed—the thread that’s present at the opening and still present at the close, even if it looks completely different—is likely your through line.

You can also try telling someone what your book is about without mentioning the plot, the characters, or the setting. Just the essence of it. Whatever comes out in that moment, before you have time to overthink, is worth paying attention to.

Once you’ve identified a through line, revision becomes a process of weaving it in more deliberately. Not heavy-handedly, but you can look for places where a nuanced echo would deepen the resonance. A visual motif that appears in the first spread and returns, transformed, near the end. A word or phrase that accrues meaning through repetition. A thematic question that scenes answer in different ways. The goal isn’t to make every page about the through line. It’s to make sure nothing in the book is working against it.

When you revise toward your through line, you’re giving the reader something they may not consciously notice, but will absolutely feel: the sense that this story knows what it is, knows what it’s doing, and is confident in that purpose.

Happy revising!

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Notes on Revision is a three-part series on the craft of revising story

Part One: Developmental Revision

Revision is a term that gets mentioned so often in storytelling that it can be easy to forget precisely what it means. We hear, and speak, the word frequently, so it can start to sound and feel like something small and compact and cursory: an item to check off on the list of writing to-dos.

But the word itself is inherently interesting. Revision: “a seeing again.”

To revise is to look again—to truly look, carefully and with full attention—at the story you have written.

Revision is not about glancing or scanning. It’s not the act of taking a once-over at the words on the page and swapping a few in or out. It’s not deciding that the story is “close enough.”

It’s like renovating a house. If you repaint the rooms, choose shiny new light fixtures, and update the kitchen cabinets, you’ve addressed the surface level details. The house looks different. But if there are cracks in the foundation or worn spots in the roof, you still have problems. Structure is your story’s foundation. Everything else sits on top of it.

That distinction matters because it changes what you’re actually doing when you sit down with your manuscript or dummy. The most important revision work happens underneath—at the level of structure.

Developmental revision is the work of solving those structural issues. It’s where the biggest, most meaningful changes live. Before you touch a single line of prose, before you worry about whether a word sounds right read aloud, you need to know whether the bones of your story are holding up. Does the narrative arc flow in the way you hoped it does? Are the characters fully fleshed out? Is the story earning its ending?

I know this can feel daunting, especially when you’ve already poured real and extensive creative energy into a draft—or many drafts. You’ve thought about this story, sketched it out, daydreamed it into being. The idea of stepping back from that and asking whether the architecture itself is sound isn’t comfortable. But it’s the most important thing you can do for your story.

When I approach developmental revision, I come at it through questions: specific, pointed questions that demand honest answers. Here are some I return to most often.

*What does the main character want, and what do they need? These are often two different things. The gap between want and need is where story lives—it creates internal tension and gives the character’s journey meaning beyond the plot.

*What’s at stake if the character doesn’t get what they want? If you can’t answer that clearly, or if the answer is “they’d be a little disappointed,” the stakes probably need reexamining. Consequences have to feel real to the character, even in the gentlest story.

*Does the tension escalate? A story that hums along at the same emotional register throughout is coasting. Something should be getting harder, more complicated, more urgent as the pages turn. If the problem at the midpoint feels roughly the same as it did at the opening, that’s worth a hard look.

*Does the character change, and is that change earned? Something internal should shift between page one and the final page. And it can’t just appear at the end; it has to grow from the events of the story itself.

*Is every scene doing a job? If you can’t say what a particular scene, spread, or chapter accomplishes in the larger narrative, it may not need to be there, regardless of how well it’s written.

*Does the ending feel both satisfying and inevitable? Not predictable—inevitable. The reader should feel, looking back, that this was the only way the story could have resolved, given everything that came before it.

These aren’t questions you answer once and file away. You might work through one, revise accordingly, and discover that the fix has exposed something new. That’s not a sign you’re doing it wrong—it’s a sign you’re doing it honestly and rigorously, which is what your story deserves. Structural revision is rarely tidy. But every pass through these questions (and others) brings the story closer to what it’s trying to be.

One last thing: if you’re working on your own before anyone else reads the draft, the most valuable tool you have is distance. Put real time between the writing and the revision. When you come back, you want to read the story that’s actually on the page, not the version still swirling in your head. Those are different manuscripts, and revision only works on the external one.

Next time, I’ll talk about throughlines—the thread that holds a story together—and what it means to revise toward something, rather than just away from what isn’t working.

Happy revising!

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Reading for love

I love Valentine’s Day. I love the hearts. I love the way pink and red and glitter coat every surface. I love the candy aisles in drugstores and the chocolate desserts in bakeries and the pink bubbly drinks. I love the classroom boxes of 30 paper valentines and cardboard mailboxes and the doilies and potato chips shaped as hearts. I love the Spotify playlists and the romantic comedies that are playing in movie theaters for one night only and the bouquets of flowers. I love the greeting cards with puns and art and a million creative ways to say “I care.”

I love how the holiday celebrates love in all its forms: romantic love, the love between friends, between family, between you and yourself, between us and the world we’re trying to survive in. Spending this stretch of deep winter focused on what’s close to the heart—turning toward warmth when everything is cold and bare—is beautiful.

I also love the books that celebrate, examine, and hold love. In that spirit, here’s what I’ve been reading lately.

Heart the Lover by Lily King

Love Poems by Rupi Kaur

Meet Cute: Count Down to Valentine’s Day by Various Authors

Heart Check by Emily Charlotte

A Waffle Lot of Love! by Ben Clanton

Cupig by Claire Tattersfield & illustrated by Rob Sayegh Jr.

Love Is by Diane Adams & illustrated by Claire Keane

I hope February includes lots of stories that makes you feel something.

What are you reading right now?

Glimmers to share

✨Surrounding myself with candy hearts and pink and books from childhood I love

✨A favorite exhibit: “Anatomy of a Hug” by luna lu

✨I love this anatomically correct heart necklace from Science Jewelry and shirt from Mission Thread

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I’m drawing, even though I cannot draw

There’s a new coffee shop in Brooklyn called Still Life. They call themselves an Art Space and Coffee House, and despite the fact that I have no business being anywhere near an “art space,” I find myself at Still Life often. It’s airy and open, with amazing chai lattes and a soothing aesthetic. Aside from a tranquil workspace, they offer art classes, community events, and materials gathered beautifully across tables for anyone to use—sketch pencils, paper, and different artistic tools that I don’t even know the proper names for.

It’s a place to work, but it’s really a place for artists to create art—which is why I was always intimidated by spending more than a few minutes inside. But recently when I passed by, and I was beckoned in by a warm glow in the frigid winter gloom, I sat at one of the tables and plucked a sharp pencil from the jar in front of me.

Not long ago, I’d brought my three boys here so they could draw while snacking on banana bread, then leave their art for the enormous, and growing, gallery inside. Without my children—the real artists, in my mind—present, I hesitated. But after determining that no one was watching me, no one was going to throw me out for being untalented, and literally nobody cared what I was doing, I began sketching the flowers in front of me, which were begging to be immortalized visually on the page.

I’ve been drawing every day since. Only for five or ten minutes during a break in my workday, and with whatever medium I have handy, taken from the kids’ art cart. In the hopes of fostering their creative spirits, I’ve spent years amassing a collection of artistic tools for them that range from crayons and Crayola markers, to watercolor brushes, metallic pens, and charcoal pencils that I myself have never used until now.

Upon completion, each of my drawings have been immediately destroyed, because I’m still worried someone will find them and judge me for earnestly trying at something that I am catastrophically bad at.

When it comes to drawing, I harbor no delusions—or hope—of eventual competence. But there’s something about creating art for the sake of the process, as opposed to the outcome, that is so enjoyable.

Somewhere along the way (and I believe for most of us, it was depressingly early in our lives) we absorbed the grim message that we shouldn’t do things we’re not good at. Or that if we’re going to do something at all, we should be working toward mastery: training for the marathon, angling for the gallery show, publishing the novel. Making a decent side hustle from our creative skills. Tim Wu diagnosed this affliction in his 2018 essay In Praise of Mediocrity, mourning what he called “the gentle pursuit of modest competence, the doing of something just because you enjoy it, not because you are good at it.”

The consequence of this relentless quest for excellence is that so many of us simply abstain. We default to consumption over creation. We scroll through the work of others and pronounce ourselves “not talented” or “not artistic,” as though creativity were not a deeply human impulse we’ve merely neglected into dormancy.

I wonder if this is changing, though. When I look at social media or open newsletters from my favorite bookstores and event spaces, I see more and more invitations to an array of creative gatherings, activities, sessions, classes, salons, and date night offerings. There’s everything from pottery, watercoloring, and speed drawing, to charm bracelet making, collaging, and rock painting, to dancing, group singalongs, and micropoetry writing. Most of them have wait lists longer than the attendance roster.

If I had more hours in the day, I would show up to these regularly—even the ones I’d be awful at. Especially those. And clearly I’m not alone. The sheer ubiquity of them indicates something beyond a trend. It suggests yearning.

The question is, what are we all hungry for, that we’re seeking in a Wednesday night cupcake decorating workshop?

I don’t think it’s the skill-building. Community is definitely part of it. But at the heart of it, I think it’s about the permission. It’s about being allowed to be creative, oftentimes together.

Of course, we don’t actually need the group. We can simply begin, wherever we are and whomever we’re with.

Here’s what the research keeps revealing: skill level is besides the point. A 2016 study from Drexel University measured cortisol (the stress hormone) in participants before and after forty-five minutes of making art. Seventy-five percent emerged with significantly lower levels. However, there was no correlation whatsoever between stress reduction and artistic experience. The novice who’d never so much as held a decent brush derived the same biological boost as the lifelong practitioner.

The mere act of making something, no matter how that final product might be received, engages multiple regions of the brain simultaneously, what psychologists call “flow state,” which is an immersive, time-dissolving quality that functions as a kind of mental sanctuary. It summons the parasympathetic nervous system (your body’s “rest and digest” response, a merciful counterweight to chronic vigilance), releases dopamine, and generally offers your overwrought mind something to occupy itself with besides ruminating, catastrophizing, or composing imaginary conversations.

And there’s something particularly liberating about the deliberate creation of poorly-done art. When you arrive at the page or the canvas or the art space with no expectations, the inner critic is disarmed. You cannot fail at something you were never attempting to succeed at. You’re simply making marks on paper, or mangling clay into approximate shapes, or stringing words alongside one another.

Some places to begin:

Sketch what’s in front of you

Write a rhyming poem

Pick up an instrument you don’t know how to play

Sing in your car

Make a collage from catalogs

Write a song

Finger paint

Dance in your kitchen

Build something from cardboard

Arrange flowers in a jar

Smoosh around clay

Embroider a phrase onto something

Try calligraphy with a cheap brush pen

Draw a comic strip about your week

Press flowers between book pages

Carve something from a bar of soap

Bake a loaf of no-knead bread

Knit a square

Craft a puppet from a paper bag

Bedazzle a book cover

Decorate ready-bake cookies with frosting in a can

Hand-make valentines

The purpose isn’t to cultivate a skill or build toward some shareable culmination. The purpose is to spend time making something simply because the making of it feels good, and to let that be sufficient. It’s enough to be an amateur, in the original Latin sense of the word: amare, to love. One who does something for the love of it, unburdened by the heartache of desired outcome.

We are not obligated to be good at everything we do. We’re barely obligated to be good at most things we do. Sometimes the best reason to do something is that it’s fun. The world doesn’t need to witness the result, and you’ll never achieve mastery, and you do it anyway.

The bar, as they say, is on the floor. None of us need permission to step over it.

Glimmers to share

✨The Six Bells Crimson Crossings Quilt was a gift this year, and it already feels like an heirloom.

✨Another gift, from a friend who knows where my heart is.

✨WTF notebooks: the website is such an entertaining rabbit hole and these notebooks also make fantastic presents.

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Picture books make the best presents. I give picture books to everyone, no matter their age, because a good picture book is more than a read-aloud for a child. It’s a portable art gallery. It’s a narrative gift that teaches something new, or offers reminders on how to do life, or takes someone out of the seriousness of the world and gets them laughing at something absurd. A good picture book is a treasure.

As I think about the kidlit I’m gifting this year, I keep returning to the books I helped bring into being over the past few years. These stories are special—truly exceptional in their own ways. I'm so proud of the creators who wrote, illustrated, or wrote AND illustrated these books, and the publishing teams who collaborated to take them from concept to bookshelf.

When I spot these titles in bookstores, see them on libraries displays, and notice them popping up on social media, I’m reminded how challenging it is to create a stellar children’s story, especially nowadays, but how worthwhile it is—knowing that these stories make a difference, and there are young readers (or teens or adults) who are waiting for one of these books to arrive in their hands and change their lives.

Soulful Struttin’

Written by Julia Pierre Hammond, illustrated by Ana Latese

A father and daughter’s afternoon of cleaning becomes a celebration of the music, food, and culture of New Orleans.

Rory the Remarkable Dragon

By Kathryn Rammell

Rory isn’t like the other dragons. She’s a remarkable dragon. So remarkable in fact that she stands out from all the other dragons at school and quickly becomes the most popular student in class, thanks to her unique abilities that other dragons don’t seem to possess.

Every Body Move!

Written by Jenna Elyse Johnson, illustrated by Ananya Rao-Middleton, sung by Audra Mariel

An original singalong celebrating kids with disabilities and the tools that help them access our world.

The Chemistry Between Art and Science

By Jen White

An inspiring look at how observation, patience, and creativity fuel our discoveries in art and science.

Katie, Big and Strong: The True Story of the Mighty Woman Who Could Lift Anything

Written by Jennifer Cooper, illustrated by Jen White

Katie Sandwina lifted more than carousels and cannons—she also lifted up women everywhere.

Fanny’s Big Idea: How Jewish Book Week Was Born

Written by Richard Michelson, illustrated by Alyssa Russell

In celebration of the 100th anniversary of Jewish Book Week, this engaging biography introduces children to the influential librarian and immigrant who originated the event.

Dominique’s Thrifted Treasures

Written by Margarett McBride, illustrated by Ryan Middaugh

This warm and joyful story highlights the subtle and sometimes surprising threads that connect us to our neighbors while touching on economic issues faced by low-income and multi-generational households.

Kisses Are Invisible

Written by Dee Romito, illustrated by Jen White

A comforting, tender tale that shows young readers that the love of family is something to count on.

Preorder today for a picture book later

Coming soon! These books are available for preorder now. Preorders are a gift you give to your future self, and they also show support for upcoming stories that should be on everyone’s radar.

Where They Gather

Written by Teresa Rodrigues, illustrated by Jamiel Law

As a tree grows, so too does a strong and loving Black family over generations in this gorgeous and lyrical picture book spanning centuries of persistence and hope.

Billy and the Hole

By Jessica Goecke

A boy, a talking hole in the ground, and an impossible request.

But Art is Awful

Written by Cassi McCreight, illustrated by Xindi Yan

A hilarious picture book about an endearing little crank who thinks the museum is absolutely awful . . . or is it actually awesome?

Bandage Buddies

By Kathryn Rammell

A sweet and hilarious story about a group of emotional support bandages who are ready to help all kids, everywhere.

Hattie, The Happy Little Camper

Written by Danielle Davison, illustrated by Alyssa Russell

After years of taking her human family on summer vacations, a little camper is left alone in a backyard, feeling sad and lonely.

I Spark Like Lightning

Written by Jenna Elyse Johnson, illustrated by Sue Teodoro

An honest portrayal of life with epilepsy, what it’s like to experience seizures, and how kids manage it, while celebrating disability joy and empowerment.

What picture books are you giving this year? Which ones are on your wish list? Do you have a favorite independent bookstore that always has the best kidlit selections? Which books are on display there?

What other books are you recommending and sharing this holiday season?

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My job—across every corner of my creative life—is to revise. As an agent, I read for satisfying narrative arcs, for character shifts that feel earned, for emotional turns that land cleanly on the page. I read the same story again and again, each time noticing what it’s trying to become. I help shape manuscripts and illustrations so that other people can revise them, guiding the drafts toward the version of itself that feels inevitable once you see it in the end.

As a writer, revision is an essential part of my language. It’s how I close the distance between what I meant and what I managed to say, however incompletely, the first time around.

Personal reflection also holds the potential for revision, insofar that it can help re-trace the path of a day or a year or a season, seeing what only distance reveals.

Often, we talk about revision as if it were correction: “the draft was wrong; now we make it right” or “the sketch was off kilter; now it’s on point.” We identify the broken places and mend them. We cut what doesn’t serve. We tighten, adjust, clarify, repair.

This is revision at one level, and it’s necessary work. But the word itself holds something larger.

I like to think of revision as experiencing a re-vision of a piece. To see again. To have vision, once more, for something we made when we had a more limited scope of what it was, and what it could become.

A first draft isn’t a failed attempt at the final book—it’s the only book that could have been written from inside the initial moment of making it. We can’t see the shape of what we’re building while we’re still laying the first round of bricks.

Revision offers a different vantage point. We step outside. We return to the pages and the panels not as the person who made them, but as a reader encountering them fresh. And in that, something shifts: our capacity to see what the story is reaching toward.

When you live inside creative work long enough, you start to notice how this way of seeing bleeds outward.

How easily I slip into “re-seeing” conversations, situations, relationships, choices. A moment that felt ambiguous at the time acquires new dimensionality later. A storyline in life that once made no sense shifts slightly and reveals a new takeaway. Even the perplexing subplots we all carry—the ones that resist easy categorization—become clearer when approached with a reviser’s eye rather than a search for perfect resolution in the moment.

We’re in a month that especially invites reflection: the recaps, the lessons learned, the resolutions already crystallizing for January. Something about December implies we can look back at the arc of the year and retrospectively rearrange it into something neater, and more streamlined; something that makes sense.

We can’t, of course. Life is not a draft. The words were said or they weren’t. The events unfolded as they did. Risks were taken or deferred, kindness was shared or not. What’s done is genuinely, irreversibly done.

There’s another sort of looking back that doesn’t require the past to be different. Not revision as improvement, but “re-vision” as expanded sight. We return to the same scenes, the same problems, the same moments that seemed opaque while we were living them—and we see something we couldn’t see before. The facts don’t change. But the meaning might rearrange, revealing a through line that was untraceable before.

There are my own stories from this year, and years past, that I’m still re-visioning. I return to them the same way I return to a dummy or a sketch: examining character motivations I thought I understood, reconsidering plot beats that seemed incidental at the time, noticing where the line weight was heavier than I realized at first glance. I’m still tracing arcs.

The year behind me isn’t a manuscript to correct. It’s one I get to read again, with everything I know now that I didn’t know then. Some takeaways are finally visible, and others are still emerging, revealing themselves slowly, the way meaning always does when we’re patient enough to let it.

This isn’t nostalgia and it isn’t self-editing. It’s a creative posture. A willingness to hold time the way you hold a manuscript, with the same generous attention you’d offer a story you believed in, but couldn’t yet see fully.

Here is what I’ve learned from years of sitting with writers in revision: the ones who struggle most are the ones who arrive defended.

They believe they already know precisely what the book is and what it could be. They believe they know what works, without even glancing briefly at other opportunities. They’ve already decided that the whole work is non-negotiable. They come to the manuscript gripping it like it’s something fragile to protect from the cruel world.

But revision asks the opposite of us. It asks us to hold our own work loosely. To approach the pages with genuine questions, rather than answers we’re trying to confirm. What is this, actually? What’s it trying to become? What’s here that I haven’t been able to see?

The willingness to be uncertain about your own story is what makes “re-seeing” possible.

I think the same is true for how we hold our lives. If we’re too sure about what a year meant, about what should have happened, or what those things implied, we can’t see anything new.

Revision, in craft and in life, is a willingness to look again with trust that something will shift if we shift our perspective.

Next year, I’ll be teaching a workshop on revision in storytelling. We’ll talk about arcs and pacing and the practical craft of returning to pages. But underneath the technique, there’s something more abstract: the idea that revision is a practice of humility. It asks us to accept that we couldn’t see everything the first time, and that this isn’t failure. It’s the condition of making things.

The gift is that we get to look again.

Glimmers to share

✨I Love LA is a hilarious and unhinged new show that I cannot get enough of. My takeaways include notes for my upcoming LA trip and how I’m thinking about children’s book influencers more than ever before in my life (the show isn’t about kidlit, but it’s based around influencers and PR).

✨Words on Warren is a new children’s bookstore in Tribeca. For us Kathleen Kelly fans, this is a real-life Shop Around the Corner that is worth defending against the Joe Fox’s of the world. They call themselves “purveyors of books and childhood memories,” and I think that's perfect.

✨Christmas Tree Season!

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I spent my weekend in bookstores. On Friday night, I met friends at a very trendy bookstore-bar where we talked, ate cheese, and scanned the beautifully curated shelves. This place truly was too cool for me, but when the owner told me I looked familiar, and she thought I’d been there just a few days ago at an event, like a regular, it made me aware of how well I commit to the part of “stock-photo publishing girl.” I was expected there, thanks to my plaid skirt, ivory tower headband, and my literary tote bag, despite it being my first time inside.

After a while, I left the group to attend an art show party and panel for local kidlit illustrators at a bookstore down the street. The next day, I went to a third bookstore to celebrate their one-year anniversary celebration, and on the walk back to my apartment, I stopped by a local cookbook shop to pick up a couple of early Christmas presents.

By Sunday, I was exhausted from bookstores—just kidding! Sunday night, I went to a show at a fifth spot and browsed the used books with a friend while a small band played on the raised stage inside.

What stayed with me at the end of my weekend weren’t the hundreds of books I passed, but the handful that stopped me as I scanned the titles, covers, and talking cards—the ones that glittered differently inside the wordy swirl. A picture book who’s premise made me say, “wait…what?” A middle grade cover that refused the familiar poses and color palettes. A board book that utilized the format in a way that I hadn’t seen before.

These were the books that stood out, and still linger in my mind.

What stands out and rises to the top

We live inside a snow globe of narrative overwhelm. Children, and adults, are bombarded by stories flickering across screens, told in podcasts, embedded in games, streaming through endless digital channels. Each story competes for a moment of attention. Yet beneath this noise, something profound remains true: a powerful story can still stop time.

The children’s publishing landscape is crowded and highly competitive, for many reasons. There are smaller lists, tighter budgets, drops in literacy rates, and an economy that makes every book purchase a significant choice. These are the constraints within which creators must now work.

But constraints have always been the soil from which innovation grows. Remarkable storytelling has never been about abundance, but about precision. It employs emotional truth, moments so specific they become universal, and with choices so unexpected that they crack open a reader’s understanding of themselves and the world, letting light into previously unseen spaces.

Unpredictable elements create deeper emotional engagement, inviting readers to lean in, to feel more deeply, and to connect more intimately with characters’ journeys. In a world of fleeting attention, memorable stories are those that stick, with twists that reframe entire experiences, becoming conversation starters that get recommended, shared, and remembered.

Consider how a story enters the world. It’s not just about plot, or character, or setting. It’s about perspective. It’s about finding those narrative entry points that feel both startlingly new and immediately recognizable. What if the story is told by the shadow on the wall? Or by the moldy cereal bowl left behind in a child’s bedroom? Or by the wind passing through an empty playground? These unusual voices don’t simply tell a story, they reframe our entire understanding of how stories can be constructed and experienced.

Plot and character, too, can be reimagined when we loosen our grip on the familiar. Protagonists must be compelling, and they need to be specific. A child who insists she’s part moth and keeps flying toward porch lights is far more intriguing than a generic “brave girl with a big dream.” A boy who reads sidewalk cracks as messages written only for him expands upon the broad strokes “imaginative kid who sees the world differently.” A book-nerd type who spends her weekends in the stacks is predictable; a girl who loves libraries and finds stories in baseball games or music festivals is not.

A plot doesn’t need to climb the didactic mountain of conflict to resolution—it can meander, double back, or spiral outward. Maybe the narrative is structured like a scavenger hunt, or a recipe, or a game of telephone where every retelling changes the truth.

Layered meaning becomes the secret language of stand-out kidlit. A seemingly simple story can hold complex emotional truths, philosophical questions, and nuanced character explorations.

It’s too easy be prescriptive in creating for kids, and it’s important to remember that these choices of character, plot, narrative, and structure aren’t a formula to be followed, but an experiment to be played with: a chance to reshape how characters grow, how events unfold, and how emotional weight settles on the page.

Getting creative in concepts

For creators, this means pushing beyond the first idea. It means asking: what if? What’s the story nobody else would tell? How can I approach this from a direction that is compelling and fresh?

The most distinctive stories emerge when we’re willing to abandon our initial understanding of how a narrative “should” be, and move away from the beaten path. Instead, think about “what’s next” or “what’s possible?” Brainstorm the book about the narwhal who can only speak in knock-knock jokes, or the friendship story told from the perspective of a subway bench, or the bedtime book narrated by the sun, who is extremely annoyed about being replaced every night.

Grown-ups can be cautious. We tend to cling to what we assume the industry will tolerate. We show preference for a well-behaved arc, a tried-and-true trope, and something tidy.

But the kidlit market is becoming fatigued by these familiar stories. We’ve seen how absurd the world is. Children and teenagers understand this best of all. What we need are stories that are unpredictable, unexpected, and impossible to ignore in a crowded marketplace. Stories that grab the attention of a reader and hold on tight. These are the ones that take risks: they surprise, unsettle, illuminate. They make us look again.

In a snow globe swirling with endless narrative, the stories that endure are the ones brave enough to shimmer differently.

Prompts for crafting unexpected stories and illustrations

• Develop a story where the protagonist is not a character, but a concept, an emotion, or an overlooked object in the room. How might a narrative about loneliness be told from the perspective of an empty chair? Or a tale of transformation narrated by a forgotten paintbrush?

• Create a story where the most significant plot point happens in the white space. What crucial moments are we not seeing? What live in the margins?

• Design an illustration series that tells a completely different story in the background from what the text suggests. How can visual subtext create layers of meaning?

• Develop a character who is defined entirely by what they do not do, by their absences and hesitations. What makes a protagonist compelling through their restraint?

• Explore a story told entirely through found objects, documents, or ephemera. What narrative emerges when we piece together fragments?

• Imagine a story that begins exactly where another traditional narrative would end. What happens when the “happily ever after” is actually the starting point?

• Write from the perspective of a character who fundamentally misunderstands their own story. How does their misperception reveal deeper truths?

• Invent a story where the traditional narrative arc is completely inverted: the climax happens first, the resolution at the beginning, leaving the middle to explore the profound “why” behind the events.

• Create a picture book where the page turns become a narrative device, where the act of moving through the book is as important as the words and images.

• Develop a story that fundamentally reimagines the book as an interactive object. Consider how the physical form, format, and materiality of the book can become an integral part of the narrative experience.

Revisions questions for authors & illustrators

• When someone reads only the first 2–3 pages/spreads, can they predict what will happen? If so, what might surprise them instead?

• Which moment (image or sentence) would make a kid say, “wait…what?” If there isn’t one, where could it be?

• Can you identify a scene where a familiar choice was made simply because it’s common? What would the opposite choice look like?

• If you removed your main character and swapped them with another from the same book, would the story still work? If yes, your character may need more specificity.

• What is your character wrong about at the beginning of the story? How does that change?

• Could an illustration or visual beat carry a piece of the story, instead of the text?

• What is the “weirdest” idea you cut because you thought it was too strange? Could that be the beating heart you need to dig up from under the floorboards?

• If a child reads this to an adult, what line or image would the adult remember later? Why?

• Does the ending reaffirm something the reader already knew, or does it reveal something new?

• Is there a page/spread that feels like it belongs to a different book?

• Can you summarize your plot without referencing tropes?

• Where could the stakes be emotional rather than external?

• Which detail is so specific it could only exist in this story? Are there enough of those?

You’ve got this! Now go make something only you could.

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Middle grade stories for spooky season (and beyond)

I love scary stories. Ever since I was in third grade, re-reading my spine-cracked copies of Goosebumps and Scary Stories to Tell in Dark, I’ve been completely enchanted and bewitched by horror.

Horror, I’ve discovered over time, is far more than mere darkness; it’s a profound container that allows us, children and adults, to confront the shadowy landscapes of our inner and outer worlds. Within these narratives, supernatural terrors become eloquent metaphors for life’s fundamental challenges: the uncertainties of growing up, the complexities of human connection, and the transformative power of facing what we fear.

At its core, horror is a compassionate genre. It reveals that fear, when approached with empathy and imagination, becomes not a barrier, but a compass pointing us toward what truly matters: safety, love, belonging, and authentic truth. For young readers especially, these stories are not just about monsters and ghosts, but about resilience, and discovering that strength emerges not from eliminating fear, but from walking alongside it. In this way, horror becomes more than a genre; it’s a sanctuary of emotional exploration, a narrative space where we can safely examine the unknown, transforming what once paralyzed us into a source of self-discovery.

In that spirit, here are some of my favorite new horror books for middle grade readers—perfect for Halloween week, and for any time you want to feel a little bit haunted.

Haunted USA: Spine-Tingling Stories from All 50 States written by Heather Alexander, illustrated by Sam Kalda

Bones and Berserkers: 13 True Tales of Terror from American History by Nathan Hale

Broken Dolls by Ally Malinenko

Another by Paul Tremblay

A Little Too Haunted by Justine Pucella Winans

The Pumpkin Princess and the Buried Castle by Steven Banbury

The Ghosts of Bitterfly Bay by Mary Averling

It’s Watching by Lindsay Currie

The Many Hauntings of the Manning Family by Lorien Lawrence

Stinetingers 4 by R.L. Stine

Stitch by Pádraig Kenny

Welcome to the Ghost Show by J.W. Ocker

Ghoul Summer by Tracy Badua

The Last Resort by Erin Entrada Kelly

Ghost Circus written by Adrienne Kress, illustrated by Jade Zhang

Free Piano (Not Haunted) by Whitney Gardner

Deepwater Creek by Michael Regina

The Sinister Sisters and Other Terrifying Tales written by Roseanne A. Brown, illustrated by Shazleen Khan, Bill Masuku, and Gigi Murakami

Happy Halloween, and may Spooky Season live within us all year round!

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Picture Books for Spooky Season

This October, I’ve received what might be the greatest gift possible for a person like me: I believe my new (100+ year-old) apartment is haunted. Before anyone worries, I have to say this is thrilling news.

The presence is subtle but undeniable—there’s a shift of air, objects are sometimes slightly askew, there’s that peculiar feeling of being watched when I’m all alone. I’ve heard knocking, faint whisper sounds, and strange noises at stranger hours. But “malicious” isn’t a word I’d use. More like... neutral. Benignly curious, maybe. The kind of ghost that might raise an eyebrow at my choice of reading material, but wouldn’t dream of actually throwing said book across the room.

I’ll keep everyone posted!

Truthfully, the scariest thing this Halloween season isn’t the ghost. It’s the palpable fact that my children are aging out of picture books. Which means I can no longer pretend my already-enormous collection is “for the boys.” I’m the lone adult lingering in the children’s section, holding my pumpkin spice latte in one hand, and a heavy stack of new picture books in the other.

But picture books have never really been for kids alone. They’re concentrated storytelling—pint-sized cathedrals. And spooky picture books are their own perfect genre, equal parts sweetness and shadows.

So with the possible assistance of my discerning ghost, I’ve rounded up a selection of the best new picture books to read during Halloweentime.

Luna and the Witch Throw a Halloween Party

Written by Aubrey Plaza and Dan Murphy, illustrated by Hannah Peck

“Luna Lopez wants to be a witch. Pheenie the witch wants to throw a Halloween party.
Together this unlikely pair strikes a deal: If Luna helps her pull off the best, most spectacular soiree in the neighborhood, Pheenie will teach her the secrets to her potions and spells. There’s only one problem: Getting this party on track is harder than Luna expected. She’ll have to curb every one of the frazzled witch’s creepy, crawly instincts to make sure the evening is full of both tricks and treats . . . and not a festive flop!”

The Gingerbread Monster

Written by Dan Gemeinhart, illustrated by Hugo L. Cuellar

“In his laboratory high on the hill, Frank N. Stine has a ferocious sweet tooth that snarls to be fed. But when an eerie experiment spills into his Gingerbread batter, a frightening cookie creation comes to life! The Gingerbread Monster is hulking, horrific . . . and hungry. But as Frank is chased by his creepy creation, the young baker begins to wonder what the Monster truly craves. After all, there’s no sweeter treat than friendship.”

Chicka Chicka Tricka Treat

By Julien Chung

“The classic alphabet chant gets a Halloween twist as the letters sneak their way up the tree, all donning their spiffiest costumes. But when a witch swoops in, and the letters come tumbling down, will that be the end of their Halloween fun…or just the beginning?”

This Year, a Witch!

By Zoey Abbott

“A little girl has been every adorable thing you can imagine for Halloween, and she is done with being cuddly, sweet, and precious. This year, she’s rebelling big-time and going for a totally different vibe: the spookiest thing out there. She’s going to be…a witch! With only a little help from Dad, she works hard on her witchy locks, brew, spells and enchantments, and power to petrify. But what happens when what she sees in the mirror is so spooky, she scares even herself? Nothing that an understanding dad—and maybe a quick restorative nap—can’t handle.”

The Zombees

Written by Justin Colón, illustrated by Kaly Quarles

“What’s that creepy buzzing sound coming from the graveyard ground? ZOMBEES!
When these undead insects invade, they send everyone fleeing in fright. Are they hunting for a snack? Do they like the taste of veins? Have they come to eat your brains?! Find out in this rhyming Halloween tale with an unexpected twist!”

Witch Cat

Written by Lucy Rowland, illustrated by Laura Hughes

“Pippin has always been a witch’s cat . . . But he can’t help but wonder if there’s more to life! Setting out boldly by the light of the moon, Pippin tries out the life of a pirate’s cat (too much water!), a knight’s cat (too many dragons!), and a pet cat (too many ribbons!). Nothing feels quite right and Pippin wonders if he’s doing something wrong…until he realizes that maybe he’s meant to be a witch’s cat after all!”

Aggie and the Ghost

By Matthew Forsythe

“Aggie is very excited to live on her own—until she finds out her new house is haunted. But no fear, the situation is nothing that can’t be fixed with a carefully considered list of rules: No haunting after dark. No stealing socks. No eating all the food. But the ghost doesn’t like playing by the rules and challenges Aggie to an epic game of tic-tac-toe—winner gets the house.”

Evelyn Witch Gets a Pet

Written by Beth Ferry, illustrated by Charles Santoso

“Evelyn Witch has everything a witch needs. Messy hair, bubbling potions, and perfectly carved pumpkins. But there’s something missing… A pet! Perhaps she’ll get a bat or a griffin, or— Oh. She can only afford the mystery pet: a plain white egg. She watches and waits for it to hatch. Sniveling snails, something has to be done! Evelyn rolls up her sleeves and heads to the library, where they keep all the best spells. It’s time to get serious.”

Spoops: The Little Spirits of Halloween

Written by A.J. Locascio, illustrated by Laurie Conley

“Who changes the leaves? Summons the autumn winds? Wakes ghosts and spirits to haunt houses and chill the air? Why, Spoops, of course! They hatch from the smallest gourds in your local pumpkin patch at the start of every fall, then tend to your town to ensure everything is just right for Halloween. In this story, young Holly Hollowell loves Halloween more than anything, but her dentist parents are totally against any event that promotes tooth-rotting sweets. While other kids trick-or-treat, Holly watches sadly from her window…until the Spoops arrive to turn things around! With their magical help, Holly can finally show her parents the true spirit of Halloween: not the candy, but the joy of expressing yourself, unleashing your imagination, and letting your spooky side soar!”

Happy Reading! May your Halloweekend be filled with gentle hauntings!

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The Gothic veil of October

In college, I was introduced to the study of Gothic Literature, and those courses reshaped how I understood narrative and the art of storytelling. My professors were sincere and serious, and my classes were full of dreamy, thoughtful girls and cute, brooding boys. We all had impressive fountain pen collections and our own unique melodramatic sigh.

I’d been a reader of Mary Shelley and Emily Dickinson since middle school, copying their most overwrought lines into my AIM away messages, feeling the weight of their words even when I couldn’t articulate why they mattered. These Gothic literature seminars gave me an expanded lens, teaching me there was substance in mood, resonance in motifs, and meaning in the kind of ornate diction that to this day, makes my friends roll their eyes.

In these classes, we discussed ruined passageways, rattling chains, moonlight through windowpanes, and torn white dresses as if they were the codes to help us understand the world that we peered out at from behind our very own haunted cloisters.

Gothic literature is about weight. Atmosphere presses down until ordinary things—gardens, portraits, staircases—become charged with meaning. Architecture acts like memory, the chime of a bell registers despair or desire, and language itself can be lush enough to blur the border between sincerity and absurdity.

In Gothic literature, the uncanny is not indulgence, but a way of attending to reality’s hidden layers. These stories are an education in taking madness and the mind seriously.

They also beg us to read texture. The creak of floorboards carry as much significance as dialogue. Weather became psychology externalized, emotion made visible. A house can be a character. Cobwebs hold narrative weight. The world is seeping with meaning, and learning to read it’s dimensions is essential, beyond analyzing the Gothic texts.

This Gothic instinct developed into an invisible string in the work I do now with children’s books.

The twilight depth of kidlit

At first glance, Gothic novels and children’s books seem like distant cousins at best. One dwelling in doom, curses, and Byronic heroes, the other in hope, unicorns, and happy endings. But spend enough time with children’s stories, and you’ll notice that children already live in a Gothic register.

They understand that mirrors don’t always reflect what’s expected. Gloomy forests loom with an equal measure of magic and mayhem. Closets breathe differently after dark. Grown-ups trade glances like riddles and they speak in hushed tones behind bolted doors. The world, from a child’s perspective, is already excessive, strange, and heavy with both wonder and warning.

Consider Coraline’s button-eyed Other Mother, who offers love with strings literally attached. Or Maurice Sendak’s Wild Things, who roar their terrible roars and gnash their terrible teeth. Or Lemony Snicket’s A Series of Unfortunate Events, in which children are forced to be resourceful in the face of absurd, endless menace. And then there’s Edward Gorey, who understood this Gothic-children’s literature connection better than anyone. His pen-and-ink illustrations are miniature Gothic cathedrals—all cross-hatching and elaborate Victorian detail, where children in Edwardian dress meet unfortunate ends with deadpan wit.

Children don’t need to be shielded from the shadows; they’re already navigating them. The Gothic, as found in kidlit, validates the reality of young readers. It whispers: “yes, the world is vast and uneasy, the edges murky with threat. Yes, your fears have form. Yes, the darkness is real—and so is your courage in meeting it.”

The best children’s books understand what the Gothic has always known: unease is a form of knowledge. The uncanny offers a looking glass. Emotion that swells past containment reveals something authentic about being human. These stories teach us that what unsettles also illuminates, that strangeness and tenderness can live in the same basket, and that we can recognize the depth of our feelings and hold them without fear.

Daydreams and nightmares

October is the season that embodies the lessons of the Gothic.

The air thickens. There’s a shift in density, in the way golden light bends, and in how sound carries differently. Leaves ritualistically change color. Decay surrounds us. Dusk stretches longer, reaches farther. Even mundane errands feel charged with significance. October insists that atmosphere matters. That mood is substance. That the shift in the wind means something, even if we can’t name what.

October is a rich time to dream, envision, and make.

The creative process itself is entirely Gothic: first drafts are sprawling castles with too many rooms. Ideas arrive ridiculous and unruly, refusing to be tamed into neat outlines. Characters wail at all hours of the night. Plots twist through hidden hedge mazes we didn’t know existed.

Sketchbooks are murky with unfinished figures and faceless apparitions. A single smudge tells the story of heartbreak. Color palettes bleed murkier than intended. Compositions stretch across the page like dubious landscapes, some collapsing under their own weight. Images arrive like cracks in the wall.

And yet, there is always a lantern. There is clarity that cuts through the mist: a line that gleams truer than the rest, a shape that insists on being seen, a phrase that carries the whole unwieldy mess toward meaning.

Creativity may be labyrinthine, dramatic, and storm-weathered, but it is never without a beacon.

The through line connecting Gothic literature, children’s books, and creative work runs deeper than aesthetics. It’s about acknowledgment.

The Gothic validates what we sense but often dismiss—that the world holds more than its surface reveals. Terror and awe can occupy the same space. Whether it’s a ghost in the attic or a specter from a childhood dream, we can name what we feel, even if it can’t be measured.

Children’s literature understands this, too. These stories tell children what the Gothic told me: courage isn’t the absence of fear. It’s carrying a light into the dark because something there needs witnessing.

The creative process asks the same of us. Every blank page is an abandoned manor. Every new project, a sealed chamber. Every risk is a descent into uncertainty, with only a candelabra to guide us.

October makes this visible, beckoning down a jack-o’-lantern-lit passage through lengthening nights, the graveyards of our hearts, the haunted houses of our minds, and the ever-insistent creative process.

A Gothic Literature Primer

The Castle of Otranto (1764) by Horace Walpole

Often considered the first Gothic novel.

The Mysteries of Udolpho (1794) by Ann Radcliffe

Romantic suspense set in crumbling castles.

The Monk (1796) by Matthew Lewis

Infamous for its blend of lust, corruption, and demonic pacts.

Frankenstein (1818) by Mary Shelley

A tale of hubris and creation in which a scientist’s attempt to play God unleashes a monster that reshapes his life and legacy.

Uncle Silas (1864) by J. Sheridan Le Fanu

A tale of inheritance, sinister relatives, and psychological menace.

Wuthering Heights (1847) by Emily Brontë

A story of obsession and revenge played out on storm-tossed moors, where love itself becomes spectral.

Jane Eyre (1847) by Charlotte Brontë

A Gothic romance of passion and selfhood.

The Picture of Dorian Gray (1890) by Oscar Wilde

A parable in which a portrait ages and decays while its subject remains eternally young.

Dracula (1897) by Bram Stoker

Told through letters and journals, this novel cemented the vampire mythos.

The Phantom of the Opera (1910) by Gaston Leroux

A masked figure haunts the Paris Opera House, fusing romance, horror, and obsession into one spectacle.

Gothic Tales (published 20th century) by Elizabeth Gaskell

Short stories that blend the supernatural with domestic spaces, where the eerie creeps into the everyday.

We Have Always Lived in the Castle (1962) by Shirley Jackson

Two sisters live in isolation in their rotting home.

Mexican Gothic (2020) by Silvia Moreno-Garcia

A modern reimagining of Gothic tropes set in 1950s Mexico, where an old mansion hides monstrous secrets.

Glimmers to share

✨The Twisted Spine, a new horror bookstore in Brooklyn.

✨Walks through Green-Wood Cemetery.

✨P U M P K I N S !

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Every so often, especially around this time of year, I see a promising flyer for an “Adult Scholastic Book Fair!!!” event pop up. The words alone fill me with anticipation. One of the running jokes of our time is our communal, desperate ache for those school-era Book Fairs, and everything they represented at the time.

I will attend every single event billed as a Grownup Book Fair, but after visiting enough of these, I’ve found these usually miss the mark. The tables are too carefully curated, the lighting too moody, and there’s a distinct lack of bubble-lettered signage. They’re lovely, but they’re not the Book Fairs we grew up with.

We're not kids anymore. The magic can't be reproduced. But what we can do is carry the shape of it forward with the devotion of grown book nerds and creatives. I already do that with literary events, bookstore crawls, book clubs, book launch parties, festivals, and following other story-minded people on social media.

But there’s still something about the Book Fair specifically that functions like a recollective white whale—a symbol we keep circling, knowing it was never just about the books, but about the shimmer of possibility in that moment of childhood.

That longing and reverence is exactly what I tried to capture in this field guide to the Anatomy of a Proper Book Fair Haul.

The Respectable Lead

Required for teacher optics. Always a Very Serious Book™ stacked on top so the teacher thinks we’re young scholars with worthwhile opinions and perspectives on the world. Something with "Award Winner" stamped on the cover in gold foil. Did we ever actually read that book? Unlikely. But it was there, it looked earnest, and it bought us credibility.

The Weirdly Educational Nonfiction

The gateway to niche obsessions. Cryptids, dinosaurs, gemstones, Ancient Egypt, etc. For me, it was yet another Salem witch trials paperback, which technically counted as history. Nowadays, it’s still the newest paperback on the Salem witch trials. These interests never die: they become a core part of our personalities, and fodder for wistful social media posts.

The Cotton Candy Read

Goosebumps. The Baby-Sitters Club. Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark, with those illustrations that still haunt our dreams. A glossy paperback that would be devoured under the covers with a flashlight by 11 p.m. The adult equivalent is any book read in a day, the kind that makes us forget to eat lunch because we’re too absorbed in the story.

The Social Currency Pick

The book we weren’t even sure we wanted, but had to buy so we could talk about it at recess. Usually whatever series was having its moment: Animorphs, Choose Your Own Adventure, or later, Twilight. Today's parallel is the buzzy book club novel we pretend to have strong thoughts about after reading only three chapters and skimming the Goodreads reviews.

Glitter

Officially "school supplies," but looking back, these items weren't fooling anyone. They were pure hits of serotonin disguised as practical purchases. Shimmery gel pens that came in a plastic case, sparkle pencils that left their mark literally everywhere, neon highlighters in shades that aren’t found in the natural world—anything that wrote beautifully for two weeks and then lived forever in a pencil case graveyard.

The Pouch That Contained Multitudes

There was always a robust selection: pouches in tie dye, shaped like a dolphin or owl, or featuring a motivational slogan in Comic Sans font. A vessel for Lisa Frank stickers, folded notes passed in class, broken-off pencil tips, and a beloved Tamagotchi (may it rest in peace). Now, pencil pouches sit on coffee shop tables next to our laptops, and canvas tote bags hang off our chairs while we work—still serving the same emotional function, but with more refined art.

The Accessory We Swore We Needed

Pizza-shaped erasers that never erased anything. A stress ball that popped immediately after it was thrown at a sibling. Those weird stretchy hands that picked up every piece of lint in existence. These were truly necessary for deep thinking and focus, so it seems silly that adults called them "money wasters."

The Posters

*NSYNC, Jonathan Taylor Thomas, horses running majestically in slow motion. Parents often vetoed this category, so we admired that one friend’s walls covered in these book store posters, swearing one day we too would be allowed to pin up the object of our heart’s desire over our beds.

The Wild Card

That inexplicable purchase that somehow became much larger in life than the impulse buy suggested. A bookmark featuring a wolf howling at the moon. A knock-knock joke book. A "learn to juggle" kit. Or maybe those temporary tattoos that never quite looked right, but felt incredibly sophisticated at the time.

The Heart Book

The one we hugged to our chest on the way out—the type of book we can still find today. The novel or book of essays or narrative nonfiction that cracks open our soul, mirrors our mind, makes us feel seen in the sliver-sized ways we'd always hoped for. These books were there at the Book Fair, and they're all over bookshelves now.

When I look at my grown-up hauls—the tote bag full of serious books and readable paperbacks, the cutesy sticker sheets and on-point stationary, the single nonfiction fascination that has followed me since age ten—I realize the Book Fair never really ended. The details shifted, and the budget got bigger, but our hearts remained the same size.

As kids, the Book Fair was about possibility: a new story, a new pencil set, a new interest to discover. As adults, it’s different. We know what we’ll actually read, which pens we’ll use, which posters we’re finally allowed to hang. But the thrill is the same: that moment of holding something in our hands and thinking, “this could change everything for me.” And with stories, they often do.

Maybe those adult Book Fairs are meant to miss the mark a little. What they really do is softly whisper to us that we are adults, and we cannot go back. But we can still give ourselves permission to build our own book hauls any time, at any bookstore, and let them remind us why we became readers, writers, storytellers, and artists in the first place.

What’s in your dream Book Fair haul? What’s a Book Fair item from years past that still sticks in your mind? And what’s the one Book Fair item that got away? For me, it was the Goosebumps boxed set, because I already owned each individual book, and according to my parents, it didn’t make sense to buy them again, even if the holographic print that only came in the box set was the coolest thing I’d ever seen in my entire life.

Glimmers to share

✨Once in a Millennial by Kate Kennedy

Kate Kennedy is the reigning archivist of millennial nostalgia, and this book reads like sitting on the floor of your middle school bedroom, gossiping with the version of yourself who still believes in the power of a perfectly crafted AIM away message. It’s sharp, hilarious, and occasionally devastating in its accuracy.

✨Annie’s Blue Ribbon General Store

If the Book Fair table of pencil pouches and punny stationary somehow sprouted into an entire shop, it would look like Annie’s in Brooklyn. I love this place, not only for their adorable stock, but for their community-forward spirit that makes it a neighborhood institution.

✨Morning Glory Breakfast Cake from Smitten Kitchen

This cake is fall coziness in a pan and the grown-up equivalent of elementary school bake sale brownies.

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Stories come to us any number of ways: starting with the basic plot mechanics, or a “what if?” question, or an unexplored setting. Story seeds are everywhere. But no matter how you begin brainstorming, a strong story always starts and ends with a character we care about.

Vivid, well-crafted characters create universal connections, and this is especially crucial in children's books. Young readers are constantly trying to understand themselves and their place in the world. When they encounter a character who feels real—who has authentic emotions, genuine struggles, and believable reactions—they see possibilities for their own lives. They learn empathy by caring about someone different from themselves. They feel less alone when they recognize their own experiences reflected back.

Why characters matter

When a reader cares about a character, they're emotionally invested in the outcome of the story. This is what transforms reading from a passive activity into an active experience. Without it, even the most beautifully written prose or stunning illustrations become simple decorations, because character drives every other story element.

Plot without meaningful character arcs feels mechanical—things happening because the writer decided they should happen. But when plot grows organically from character choices and motivations, it feels inevitable and surprising at the same time. The character's internal journey gives weight and meaning to external events. Setting becomes more than just backdrop when we see it through a character's eyes. The character's relationship to their world makes that world come alive.

That investment in the characters of the story is what will keep a reader engaged, compelled, and it’s what will make a story stick long after the book is closed. The character journey creates a sense of bonding with the reader, and without that, stories will fall flat.

In today's competitive market, editors and publishers see hundreds of stories with solid plots and charming writing. What can make them champion a book—what can make them believe it will find its audience and create lasting impact—is a character who feels authentic and whose journey matters.

Returning to character at any phase in the process

It never hurts to return to the basics, especially when turning attention to a brand new story or when revising a project that might not be working well enough.

No matter what stage a project is in, there always exists the opportunity to revisit characterization, character arcs, and how character works together with other elements of the story.

Over time, I’ve put together a list of questions to help me get to the bottom of why a character isn’t as vibrant as I imagined them in my head, or why a character arc doesn’t have the satisfying payoff I was reaching for. Take these and use them for development of your own story, whether it’s a novel or a picture book, a graphic novel or a chapter book, a new portfolio piece or a series of sequential art you might build up to a dummy.

Questions for character development

Building blocks: foundational questions

• What does your character want (and I mean, what do they really want—not just the plot goal, but the deeper need driving them)?

• What's standing in their way?

• What are they afraid of?

• What makes them laugh?

• How do they move through the world?

Digging deeper: specificity

• What do they do when they think no one is watching?

• What's their relationship with rules?

• What would their best friend say is both their greatest strength and most annoying habit?

• How do they handle being wrong about something?

• What small thing brings them joy?

Rich layers (like a cake): full of contradictions (also like a cake!):

• What do they say they value versus what their actions actually show they value?

• When do they surprise themselves?

• What would they never admit they secretly enjoy?

• How do they act differently with different people in their life?

• What belief about themselves is completely wrong?

An advanced deep dive: questions for complexity

• What lie do they tell themselves?

• What would have to happen for them to completely change their mind about something important?

• What do they think other people see when they look at them versus what people actually see?

• How do they sabotage themselves?

• What would their character arc look like if the story started one day earlier? One year later?

For illustrators: show-don't-tell questions

• How can you show their personality through their posture in the first illustration?

• What does their living space reveal about who they really are?

• How do they interact with objects?

• What expression do they wear when they think no one sees them?

• How do they take up space?

Truly get to know your characters

The better you understand them and the more effectively you can bring them to life on the page, the more your stories will stand out—not only to editors and acquisition teams for publication, but for the young readers who need them in their lives.

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10 tips for building a children’s book illustration portfolio

from someone who looks at countless portfolios and knows what gets editors, art directors, and designers to stop scrolling

As a kidlit agent working at an illustration-forward Agency, I spend a lot of time looking at illustration portfolios. It's a favorite part of the job—seeing how artists think, how they build worlds, how they tell stories without saying a word.

I love learning an illustrator’s voice while also understanding their career goals. And now more than ever, I know how competitive the children’s book market is. Editors, art directors, and designers are inundated with new work daily, and attention spans are shorter than ever.

A strong portfolio doesn’t just showcase your style—it shows your storytelling instincts, your visual range, your emotional depth, and your understanding of how children’s books function. The best ones make me pause. They feel like they include a book already waiting to happen.

If you’re hoping to break into children’s publishing or deepen your presence in it, here are 10 quick, real-world tips to make your portfolio stronger and more market-ready.

Match your portfolio to your age range
Your portfolio should reflect the age group you want to work with. If you’re aiming for board books and picture books, show art that suits younger readers. If you’re focused on graphic novels, include sequential panel work and demonstrate pacing, dialogue, and scene transitions. For cover work, share art that could be a book cover on the shelves right now.

Tell a story
Character design is great—but characters in action are where your work will shine. Editors, art directors, and designers want to know you can carry a narrative visually, not just draw cute faces. Include emotional arcs: joy, surprise, fear, boredom.

Show a range of characters
Your portfolio should reflect variety—different ages, personalities, body types, and more. If you specialize in animals or anthropomorphic characters, show a range there too. Let your cast feel as varied and lively as a playground at recess.

Keep kids in mind
The best children's book art respects young readers. Your work should be clear and expressive, but never condescending. Show that you understand what engages children, not just what looks trendy.

Demonstrate consistency across spreads
Can you draw the same character from multiple angles, in multiple outfits, at different ages, or in different moods? Continuity is what makes editors and art directors feel safe trusting you with a full book.

Sequential art is essential
One of the most powerful things you can include in a portfolio is a short, original story told in images with 3-5 sequential spreads that demonstrate pacing, visual continuity, and your sense of narrative arc.

Mind your text placement
Even in a wordless piece, show that you understand layout. Leave space for text (and consider how type might sit across the page). Avoid crowding the edges with crucial art.

Include black-and-white or limited palette samples
Showing that you can work effectively in grayscale or a limited palette makes you a more flexible hire and opens up a whole category of potential projects.

Curate, don’t overcrowd
Think of your portfolio like a picture book: it needs rhythm, variation, and room to breathe. Group by project or character, and always lead with your strongest piece.

Lead with heart
Editors, art directors, and designers fall in love with illustrators who make them feel something. Style will get their attention, but it’s narrative clarity, emotional depth, and storytelling instinct that seals the deal.

A children’s book illustration portfolio isn’t just a collection of images—it’s a working document that shows how you think, how you tell stories, and how you might collaborate on a book.

What matters most is that your portfolio reflects how you see the world and what kind of stories you can tell. That’s what publishing professionals are paying attention to.

Glimmers to share

✨In my early 20s, I spent a lot of time in the Red Hook neighborhood of Brooklyn, and though it's been a long while, this summer has been bringing me back to that neighborhood more and more frequently. Which also means I've been making constant trips to one of the best bakeries in New York, Baked NYC.

The Sweet & Salty Brownies taste like being in love at age 23 and the Blondies are reminiscent of a particular rainy afternoon in 2007 with soaked shoes, a glitchy iPod, and a NO TRESPASSING sign. I recommend everything in the pastry case.

✨I can't work while listening to songs with lyrics. But I do like having music to keep my mind moving, and lately I've been playing The Surfrajettes, a beachy instrumental-only surf-pop-rock band on repeat during the workday.

✨For Book Club, we’re reading ANNIE BOT: A Novel by Sierra Greer. It’s eerie, unsettling, sad, and thoughtful; and it’s a perfect companion to the recent horror film COMPANION, with a very similar setup and lots of parallels, but enough distinctions to make both worthwhile stories on their own.

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I was at a gallery with an artist friend recently, and as usual, our conversation turned to “the creative process.” Hers is so different from mine: how she goes about painting versus how I approach writing a short story or novel. But also, there are similarities.

I don’t fully understand exactly how she goes from the image in her mind’s eye to the final product of a scene rendered on canvas, with all the emotion and storycrafting that comes naturally to me with the written word, but which I could never recreate with paint or pencil.

Still, there’s plenty for us to discuss—our creative minds are very aligned.

There are established formats for creators of the same discipline, and often the same format, to discuss their work. Critique groups are not only helpful to developing strong stories, but I consider them essential to forming creative community.

Critique groups, however, have their limits. They only represent and serve one facet of the creative process—the evaluative, the corrective, the retrospective. And they are siloed. I’m not a part of critique groups that focus on young adult fiction or poetry, because that’s not what I write. That’s not what I need a critical eye for.

Chatting with my creative friends, colleagues, and the creators who I work with, I began to consider what I do need. What we all need, as we create whatever kind of art we do.

Creative brainstorming groups

I think there’s room for more in how we gather and talk about our work and projects, which might be found in creative brainstorming groups. These operate on a fundamentally different principle than critique groups: instead of examining what has been created, they focus on what could be. They lean into the messy, nonlinear nature of inspiration and provide structured spaces for ideas to grow and evolve.

To me, creative brainstorming groups could function with a “yes, and” mentality. The central question could be, “what if?” Ideas could spiral outward with exploration, rather than analysis. Every comment could be a starting point, without judgement.

Genre and technique explorations

Thinking of possibilities, one way to approach craft and community is from an experimental, rather than corrective, angle. An exploration group might spend a session discussing different ways to approach story structure, character development, scene work, perspective, and more. This could be a way to share unique strengths with others, while also expanding the creative bubble that artists often find themselves in when they tend to work alone.

Business and strategy salons

Working in children’s books, I see firsthand what a challenge it can be to manage the practical aspects of building a career around creativity. Traditional critique groups rarely address the logistical questions of being your own business while also trying to create meaningful art. Brainstorming gatherings with these topics in mind could allow for honest, vulnerable discussions that offer practical solutions, forecast common issues, and provide camaraderie around the realities of the freelance life.

Cross-pollination gatherings

I could talk about children’s books all day, and thanks to my job, I sometimes get to. But whenever I have the chance to bond with creatives in different fields, working in different formats or mediums, I get so energized. My perspective broadens, I usually learn something new, and I always feel creatively recharged, in quiet awe of the many different forms of self-expression we, as humans, are drawn to. What if writers were in more active, regular dialogue with visual artists, musicians, dancers, filmmakers, actors, and more? What if we all were? I can only imagine how these conversations would produce surprising insights, expansion of worldviews, and fulfilling connections.

Getting started

No one needs permission to begin a group. The overhead could be low—a coffee shop, a living room, a Zoom room. Timing and scheduling are always factors, and some structure would help to get a new group started on the right foot, building in a positive direction with momentum. Ground rules or principles would probably be useful.

And I think the benefits would be extraordinary. Gatherings like these, which model different ways of being creative, can emphasize collaboration, curiosity, vision, and exploration. In a creative landscape that can so often feel like a lonely grind, brainstorming groups could offer something precious: spaces that begin with wonder, where ideas are welcomed, celebrated, and allowed to grow like wildflowers.

Are you already a part of a group like this? Are you planning on starting one soon? What would that ideally look like for you and the other creatives you know? I’d love to hear all about it!

Glimmers to share

✨ On every night walk I’ve taken this summer, I’ve noticed how prolific firefly glow is here in Brooklyn—moreso than usual. A firefly found its way into my kitchen, and lit up the dark room in the dead of night like it was a fairy bringing me a secret message. I’m not the only one who has taken note, either.

✨ I’m so inspired by the proliferation of young reader graphic novels, especially the rich selection that I’m seeing in independent bookstores like Books Are Magic.

✨ Summer reading book recommendations from this table display at Liz’s Book Bar.

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