Perhaps that’s also why we enjoy returning to that one picture book. The one you keep selecting, or your child asks for repeatedly. Its pages are probably chewed, softened at the edges, or falling out, while its rhythms of reassurance are embedded in memory. You’ve read it enough times to recite it and, most likely, you do.

There’s something mesmerising about the stories that circle back to us – or that we circle to find. They are rituals and anchors in the sense that they help us name the unnameable: fear, change, love, hope. It’s not only the children listening who are held by them, but also those reading aloud in the half-light, turning familiar pages with tired hands, who find steadiness and joyful, innocent surprise, a chance to feel something again, or see it more clearly.

Take Mac Barnett’s Sam and Dave Dig a Hole, illustrated by Jon Klassen. On the surface, it’s a story about two people searching for something spectacular. They dig and dig, yet keep missing the treasure that is so obvious to readers. It’s funny, playful, but also true. How often do we do the same? In January, however, we permit ourselves to take a break from digging to notice what is hiding under the momentum of life.

In William Steig’s Sylvester and the Magic Pebble, a donkey makes a wish and is turned into a rock, separated from his family, his voice, himself. He waits, helpless, and when the wish is finally undone, he returns to the same ordinary life, but now, it feels miraculous. Or Gene Zion’s Harry the Dirty Dog. Harry runs away from home, but when he returns, covered in dirt, his family doesn’t recognise him. He realises that what he really wanted was the love and acceptance of his family, even if it wasn’t as exciting as the adventure.

In the mischief of Miss Nelson is Missing by Harry Allard, we see the same emotional shape where something familiar disappears. In its place, something else arrives, and when the original returns, the world hasn’t changed, but we have.

Julia Donaldson’s books – The Gruffalo, Room on the Broom, and The Snail and the Whale – thrive on that return, on rhythm and on the satisfying resolution that brings us back to where we started, only wiser. The clever mouse circles back through danger to safety. The witch reclaims her broom, but with more friends than before. The snail, who longs to travel, sets off on the tail of a whale, affirming that even the smallest voice can make a difference in this world, and still find its way home.

So if you catch yourself reaching for that same picture book to read to a child, trust it. These are stories that say: the world may wobble, but we can find our way back. We can begin again, only better.

A thought to hold:

What picture book do you return to often? What could it be showing you now that you didn’t see before?

Photo by Jennifer Kalenberg 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.