In Praise of Quiet Picture Books
Lullaby-paced pages don’t compete with the world’s clamor—they invite it to soften.
The children’s section in a bookstore can be noisy, even when no one is speaking. Covers shout. Characters lean out with wide eyes. Every series promises adventure or hilarity. And I love much of that energy — it’s honest, it’s playful, it belongs.
But there’s another current in picture books, one I’ve always felt drawn to: quiet. Pages that turn slowly. Sentences that leave a pause after themselves. Illustrations that don’t demand attention so much as welcome it, like a flower welcomes a bee or a nose.
As a parent, I’ve seen my daughters tune themselves to that quieter pace. With dimmed lights, a book whispered at bedtime changes the whole room. The energy dips. Shoulders unclench. The book isn’t trying to entertain so much as keep company.
Source: This Morning, I Feel Like a Cat by Michael Lamanna
As a writer, I think of quiet books as a form of resistance. They refuse the assumption that children need more volume, more flash, more spectacle to hold their attention. They trust that children — maybe better than adults — can listen for what is small. They know that wonder doesn’t need to be shouted. And most of all, they know that the book at bedtime isn’t really all that important; what’s important is the gentle, intimate voice of the reader.
And so these books work like lullabies. They don’t compete with the noise of the day. They create a different kind of space, an invitation to soften. When I create toward that quiet, I’m not trying to capture attention but to return it — to the child, to the parent, to the quiet that can hold them both.
That quiet is its own story.
And we have some truly wonderful models for it: classics like Goodnight Moon and Little Bear, as well as more recent works like Jonathan Stutzman's The Night is for Darkness, Amy June Bates' The Big Umbrella, and Emily Winfield Martin's Dream Animals. They remind us that quiet books endure because they don’t fight for a child’s attention — they share it.
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Michael Lamanna is a children’s author living in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia with his wife and two daughters. Trained as a poet and a professional actor, he brings a love of rhythm, performance, and tenderness to every page. His stories often explore belonging, courage, and the quiet magic of everyday family life.