I teach Writing Picture Books at my college every semester these days. Some of the same craft questions emerge every time…usually when someone has a draft that’s almost working and they can feel it slipping.

Here are three of them.

Is this idea too small for a picture book?

This comes up most frequently with quiet stories, like a book about waiting, or taking a walk with grandma, etc.

I usually point to A Ball for Daisy. Here’s the spoiler–the whole book is about a dog and a ball. The ball breaks. Daisy loses it. That’s the plot.

What gives the book weight is how fully it stays with Daisy inside that moment. The story doesn’t rush past her reaction or try to decorate it with extra events. It lets the feeling unfold long enough for the reader to feel it too.

When a student draft starts to feel too small, what I usually see is hesitation. The writer rushes away from the moment just as it starts to deepen, or they fill the space with activity instead of attention.

That’s usually where our conversation turns. Not toward adding more story, but toward staying put just a little longer.

Do I need a clear lesson or message before I start writing?

No. When someone starts that way, I can usually tell by page two. The characters start acting like they already know what they’re supposed to learn, and every choice feels pre-approved.

To put it plainly–the story stops discovering and starts executing a plan.

In class, we look at The Most Magnificent Thing to see how to handle this in a more effective way.

In this story, the kid quits and then she sulks. Yeah, she’s maybe a bit irritating for a while. Yet the book doesn’t rush to redeem her or explain what we’re meant to take from it. The meaning shows up later, after the story has let her struggle honestly instead of steering her toward the right conclusion.

Most drafts that arrive with a message already attached don’t need a clearer message. They need a character who hasn’t worked things out yet and a story that’s willing to stay with that uncertainty instead of smoothing it over.

Why does my draft feel rushed at the end?

Most of the time it’s because the writer hits the brakes immediately after the problem is solved. In workshop, this shows up as a story that builds and resolves, but doesn’t give the reader any time to feel what that resolution actually meant.

A good real-​world example of how to avoid rushing the ending is Knuffle Bunny. The stuffie is found, which is the whole crisis of the book, yet Willems doesn’t end it there. He allows a little space afterward for the relief, the exhaustion, and the emotional shift to register before the book actually ends.

In student drafts, the fix usually isn’t more plot. It’s staying put for one more beat instead of cutting away the moment the problem disappears.

Whenever I don’t have a picture book creator interview lined up for a second-​week-​of-​the-​month post, I’ve got two options.

1. Skip the week’s post and hope no one notices.
2. Create something of equal use to picture book creators.

I like flexibility, so I tend toward option 2. That’s what we’re doing this week.

Here we go!

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It’s January, which means the internet is drowning in productivity hacks and motivational quotes from people who’ve already broken their resolutions by the time you’re reading this. But here’s the thing: most writing advice is either too vague (“write every day!”) or too prescriptive (“write exactly 500 words between 5–6am while standing on one foot and listening to Green Day”).

So here are ten resolutions for picture book creators that are actually achievable, actually useful, and—if I’m doing this right—actually entertaining. These come from my work as an editor at Bushel & Peck Books and from working with writers who’ve made these exact mistakes (including past me, who made ALL of them…often more than once).

1. Read at least five picture books you absolutely hate.

Not books that are badly written. I’m talking about books that are well executed on their own terms but collide hard with your personal taste.

Why? Because figuring out what you hate—and WHY you hate it—is craft gold. Is it the pacing? The voice? The ending that’s too neat? Too messy? Your taste is your compass. So sharpen it by purposefully bumping into things you despise.

2. Stop explaining your manuscript in your cover letter.

If your query letter includes phrases like “This story teaches children about…” or “The message is…” or “Readers will learn…”—delete them.

Your manuscript should do the teaching/​messaging/​learning-​inducing. Your cover letter should answer: What’s the book about? Why does it matter? Why are you the one to write it? That’s it. Three questions, not three pages.

3. Delete your opening line. Then delete the next one.

I’m not saying your opening definitely needs to go. I’m just suggesting that it probably does.

Most manuscripts start too early—with setup, with explaining, with warming up. Your story truly starts when something changes, when tension arrives, when your character wants something they don’t have. Everything before that? Probably throat-​clearing. Try starting on page two and see if anyone misses page one.

4. Join one writing group. Quit one writing group.

If you’re not in a critique group, find one. If you’re in three, quit two of them. Writing groups should make you better, not just busier. The right group pushes your craft, celebrates your wins, and tells you the truth about your work. The wrong group makes you feel obligated to show up, defensive about feedback, or completely exhausted by drama.

5. Read something that’s not a picture book.

Middle grade. Young adult. Adult fiction. Nonfiction. Poetry. Graphic novels. Even—brace yourself—literary fiction. Picture books are a 32-​page ecosystem, but the best ones borrow from everywhere.

You want to write tight? Read short stories. You want to nail voice? Read first-​person YA. You want to build a world fast? Read the opening chapters of terrific fantasy novels. To borrow an idea from Austin Kleon: steal like an artist.

**He’s got a lot worth of other good ideas worth stealing. Maybe sign up for Austin’s weekly newsletter?

6. Answer your own “So what?” question.

Before you submit, before you revise, before you do literally anything else…answer this:

• So what?
• Why does this story matter to an editor?
• To an art director?
• To a sales rep?
• To a teacher?
• To a parent?
• To a kid?

If you can’t answer these easily and effectively, neither can anyone else. And if nobody else can answer them, your manuscript becomes someone’s “maybe pile” that turns into their “probably not” pile. Make it obvious why others they should care.

7. Stop submitting before your manuscript is ready.

You know that feeling when you finish a draft and immediately want to send it everywhere? That feeling is lying to you. It’s like an exciting first date where everything says go go go—and you already know that’s exactly when to slow down.

Sit on it for two weeks, or a month if you can stand it. Then read it fresh and realize what you missed: the saggy middle, the unclear motivation, the ending that felt brilliant at midnight but confusing in daylight. The best submissions are the ones that waited. The worst submissions are the ones that couldn’t.

8. Write three new first pages for your “finished” manuscript.

You’ve already revised your manuscript four nine eleven times. Great! Now write three completely new opening pages. Different POV, different tone, different first line.

You don’t have to use them—but the activity will show you what you’re attached to versus what’s actually working. Sometimes the thing you love most is the thing holding your story back. Find out BEFORE you submit.

9. Buy fewer craft books. Finish more manuscripts.

Writing craft books are fantastic. I’ve read plenty and even written a few. But if you’ve got six unfinished manuscripts and four unread craft books on your shelf, you don’t have a learning problem—you have a finishing problem.

1. Pick one project.
2. Write it badly.
3. Revise it slightly less badly.
4. Repeat until it’s good.

You’ll learn more from completing and revising one messy manuscript than from reading about how to write a perfect one.

10. Celebrate a rejection.

Not every rejection, of course…just a really good one. What’s that look like? It’s the kind that comes from an editor or agent you respect, who clearly read your work, who maybe even said something specific about why it wasn’t right for them. That rejection means you’re in the game. You’re being read by people who matter. You’re close enough to hear “not quite” instead of silence.

Frame it. Screenshot it. Whatever.

Just recognize that being rejected by the right people is progress.

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So there you have it: ten resolutions that won’t make you a perfect writer but might make you a better one. Or at least a more self-​aware one. And if you break all of them by February? You’re still ahead of everyone who’s still “planning to start writing soon.”

Now go write something!