I wrote The Great Oak Tree very slowly, in my car, beneath a line of trees. We had recently moved from the South Coast of England to a northern city in the hills, full of woods and parks.

At home, the words would not come, so I kept showing up at that quiet spot on the edge of the Peak District with my laptop and an open mind. I swear, the manuscript grew out of a collaboration between me and those trees.

The story follows an old oak through the changing seasons, seen through the eyes of a young blackbird and a wise owl. When the little blackbird wonders why the tree just stands there doing nothing, we begin to discover all the ways this steadfast guardian of the woods is quietly at work – offering shelter and sustenance to the wildlife all around. And when the tree itself is under threat, the blackbird is quick to help defend it.

I’ve started to see that, like the tree, picture books have ecosystems of their own. Each one held up by many branches. Each one making space for something to take root.

There were many interactions and influences that helped The Great Oak Tree sprout:

that line of trees, of course; raising a curious child; grieving the loss of my dad – he was the steadfast oak of our family; and the random memory of a short video I’d once seen about a year in the life of a beech tree in Italy.

Picture books begin with an idea and a story, and they grow through collaboration. An agent finds the story a home. An illustrator adds atmosphere and meaning beyond the words. An editor shapes the flow, and balances text with image. A designer allows the story to breathe on the page. Production teams, marketers, printers – each plays a vital part.

The finished book may be compact and neatly bound, with just one or two names on the cover, but it has been shaped by many interactions. Picture books rely on interdependence, and when they work well, they offer something that can nourish quietly over time.

The memory of how I felt as my mum read to me each night – Where the Wild Things Are, The Giant Jam Sandwich, Mog the Forgetful Cat – has become part of me. Their rhythms find their way into my writing. Storytime on the carpet in the school library; the freedom to choose any book I liked from the shelves of a dusty book shop in Oxford, where I grew up – it’s all still there.

Because once a story is illustrated, printed and bound, it becomes something else. Like a seed, it travels and begins to grow somewhere new. The people who place books into the lives of children – school librarians among them – are a vital part of the ecosystem. Making careful, creative decisions that shape how books are received and by whom.

And when a picture book is read aloud, the story evolves. It changes with each reading voice, each pair of eyes following the illustrations, each child leaning in or drifting off into their imagination.

Books open slowly sometimes. They settle in over weeks or months or years. A line remembered. A drawing copied. A quiet connection that sticks around. And if the conditions are right, something new begins to grow.

Just like the oak.