There’s something magnetic about a map tucked into the first pages of a book. Before we meet a single character, a map says: “Here are the places you may visit one day”. We scan the terrain, searching instinctively for places that look safe or seem dangerous. These maps don’t merely illustrate location, they create an emotional starting point. The reader begins forming expectations, excitement, even attachments before the plot unfolds. A map doesn’t only orient us, it pulls us into the story, building anticipation and curiosity. The map becomes a storyteller long before the narrative unfolds.

Illustrated maps also blend logic and wonder at the crossroads of art, narrative, geography and imagination. A mountain may be too tall, a river too winding, a city floating on a cloud, but the map makes sense within the world’s rules.

A world becomes believable when it seems to extend beyond the story’s edges. The most whimsical lands become more convincing when pinned down with a crooked mountain, a forest swamp, or a tiny fishing village. A good map signals: “This place existed before you opened the book, and will continue after you close it.”

These details enrich the setting with texture. Readers experience the world not only with their minds, but with their bodies too:

• Can I imagine walking that trail?
• How far is the castle from the forest?
• What’s hidden behind that ridge?
• What obstacles lie in my way?

The best maps don’t give everything away. They leave gaps, blank spaces. Named regions never visited. Rivers that vanish into forest. This activates the reader’s own creativity. We begin to speculate:

• Who or what lives there?
• What happened there?
• Why didn’t the characters go there?

In this way, a map becomes co-creative. The author and illustrator offer an artefact; the reader fills it with meaning. In this way, maps give readers agency as travellers too.

Reflection prompt:

A map in a book often mirrors the map within ourselves. Think of a story map you’ve loved, fantasy or otherwise. Ask yourself:

1. Which place sparked your curiosity first?
   That can symbolise the part of your inner world longing for exploration.
2. Which place felt dangerous or avoided?
   This may mirror a challenge or fear in your life.
3. Which place felt like home?
   This often reflects something you value deeply: safety, beauty, community, solitude.
4. If you could add one new place to the map, what would it be?
   This reveals a desire, dream, or path waiting to be acknowledged.
5. Where in your life do you sense ‘uncharted territory’?
   A new project? A relationship? An inner change? Is this something I’m avoiding?

Photo by Patrick Fobian on Unsplash

Consider Olivia, the charming piglet created by Ian Falconer in his picture book series. The minimalist, expressive line work in her design and her playful antics in the narrative are delightful.

“Only five books tonight, Mommy,” she says.
“No, Olivia, just one.”
“How about four?”
“Two.”
“Three.”
“Oh, all right, three. But that’s it!”
– Ian Falconer, Olivia

Creating a memorable children’s book character has to be fun, agrees author and illustrator Alex Latimer, whose range of characters includes Gordon, “the meanest goose on earth”.

Latimer explains that creators often come up with characters they think children will like, or that publishers or agents may want. “But creating fun, interesting, deep characters should come from your personal experience – it’s what you bring to the table.”

He adds that this is especially true in light of the new wave of AI art in children’s books. “Machines can make soulless copies of anything they’re told to, but the joy of the creator isn’t in the work.”

Vulnerability

Another quality that creates a timeless character is vulnerability. Think of Bambi, Black Beauty, Lassie, or Jock of the Bushveld. You remember them with a sense of relief when they’re safe, or a lingering sadness when they’re not. That tension – the emotional pull – is part of what makes them unforgettable.

Illustrator Lisa Glanz captures a tender vulnerability in her characters because she takes the time to understand their personalities before she illustrates them. When you see an expressive pose, the quirks and accessories, or the way a character moves through the world, you feel a personality and your emotions come alive. You’re not only observing them; you’re experiencing them.

Honesty with heart

There also needs to be a truth in characters that both adults and children can see and relate to – a believable honesty that is well observed and conveyed. Maurice Sendak did this so well with Max in one of my favourite picture books, Where the Wild Things Are. Max resonates across generations. You remember him because you recognise that messy, wild authenticity from your own childhood self.

In the documentary Tell Them Anything You Want: A Portrait of Maurice Sendak by Oscilloscope Pictures, Sendak said: “I think what I’ve offered is different, but not because I drew better than anybody or wrote better than anybody. It was because I was more honest than anybody.”

In a conversation with Nat Hentoff for The New Yorker in 1966, Sendak was quoted as saying: “I really do these books for myself. It’s something I have to do, and it’s the only thing I want to do. Reaching the kids is important, but secondary. First, always, I have to reach and keep hold of the child in me.”

There’s joy and vulnerability in that honesty, which is why it lingers.

What characters have stayed with you, made you laugh out loud, or felt so true that you couldn’t forget them?

The answer isn’t in trends, popularity, or cleverness. It’s in what reaches your heart.