How to write a children’s book that empowers young girls

Children notice who gets to lead, who is praised for being quiet, and who is expected to fix everybody else’s problems. A story can interrupt those patterns before a child learns to accept them. As a broadcaster, journalist and author, I have seen how honest, hopeful stories travel: they give young readers language for feelings they may not yet have words for, while showing adults that children deserve complexity rather than simple instruction. The strongest stories do not turn girls into flawless symbols. They make them whole people with interests, irritations, loyalties and the power to make a choice.

Empowerment in a children’s book should feel practical rather than preachy. It can mean a girl naming a boundary, trying a new skill, recovering after failure, or insisting that a fair rule applies to her too. The key is not to announce that the character is “empowered”. Instead, build a plot in which she understands what is happening, decides what matters and takes an action that changes the story. Adults can listen, offer resources or disagree respectfully, but the child carries the meaningful consequence. That balance keeps the book realistic and leaves room for readers to recognise their own courage.

I write for an Australian audience, so everyday details matter. A school gate in Melbourne, a crowded bus in Sydney, a community centre in Brisbane or a quiet library in Perth should feel like lived places rather than scenery pasted onto a generic setting. Australian spelling, school culture, family routines and the mix of voices found in our cities can all shape a believable world. When those realities are handled with warmth and accuracy, children gain a broader picture of belonging. They also see that confidence can be quiet, loud, sporting, creative, analytical, social or solitary.

Start with a girl who has room to grow

Begin with a girl at a specific moment in her life, rather than with a broad statement about confidence. Give her an age, a family context, a preference and a problem that genuinely concerns her. Maybe she wants to join the school robotics team but is overlooked at selection, or she loves drawing while everyone assumes she should focus on science. A clear personal want gives the story emotional direction. It also makes the ending easier to judge: the reader should be able to see what the protagonist has learned, chosen or changed.

Let your character be uncertain. Young readers often distrust a heroine who appears certain from the first page. Fear, embarrassment, jealousy and conflicting advice can make her more accessible, especially if she does not have perfect language for what she feels. Avoid making every mistake part of a neat lesson. Instead, show her trying again, setting a limit or asking for help after trying alone. These small actions communicate strength more convincingly than a speech about being fearless.

The central choice should belong to the girl. Adults may create conditions, offer guidance and even misunderstand her, but they should not make the decisive move for her. As I explain when discussing audience and media reach, representation changes how audiences see what is possible. The same principle applies inside a story: a child who acts within the world she inhabits begins to imagine taking action in her own. Plot, characterisation and voice should work together to make that agency visible.

Build a world where confidence is everyday

Create a setting where girls have ordinary sources of power. A trusted friend can keep a confidence. A teacher can share a useful tool. A grandparent can offer patient practice. A local club can provide the equipment needed for a new pursuit. These supports do not make the protagonist passive because they allow her choices to become more informed. They also reflect the communities children actually move through: homes, classrooms, libraries, sports clubs, arts groups and neighbourhood shops.

Use sensory details to make the world specific without turning every location into a lesson. The smell of a canteen, the sound of a school bell, rain striking a trampoline or a poster curling on a community-centre wall can establish place quickly. Include Australian rhythms without assuming every child shares the same background. Family structures, languages, disabilities, hobbies and levels of confidence vary widely. A carefully observed setting respects those differences and gives every reader a possible point of entry.

Watch the language of strength. Repeatedly calling a girl “brave” can imply that ordinary emotions make her troublesome or that she must earn affection by coping perfectly. Replace grand declarations with precise actions. She states her preference, repairs something she broke, changes her mind after learning more, or chooses a friend when joining the popular group would be easier. Such choices reveal self-respect without making the story sound like a self-help manual. They also allow humour, warmth and uncertainty to remain part of the experience.

Let adults support without taking over

Adult characters often shape whether a young heroine feels capable or helpless. A parent who believes every frustration can be solved immediately removes opportunities for problem-solving. A teacher who demands compliance without explanation can make the story about authority rather than agency. Better adult figures listen, ask useful questions and provide choices. They might still say no, and the girl may need to wait, negotiate or find another route. Those moments can show that adulthood involves responsibility as well as control.

The support system around a child should include people besides parents. A coach, librarian, aunt, older student or neighbour can notice a strength the main character has overlooked. Intergenerational relationships are especially useful when they avoid the idea that wisdom belongs only to adults. A girl can teach a relative a new game, explain a technical idea or challenge an old assumption. This reverses the usual flow of instruction and reminds readers that influence works in both directions.

That idea extends beyond the page. Through This Girl Is on Fire and my work on building supportive communities, I have seen the effect of people who make space for honest conversation without turning every exchange into a performance. A children’s book can plant the seed for similar habits: listening closely, respecting boundaries and celebrating another person’s effort. The best support feels warm and dependable, never controlling.

Write with care and legal awareness

Consult children when the subject, age range and format make it appropriate. Their responses can reveal whether the language feels natural, whether the humour lands and whether an important feeling has been buried under explanation. Work with parents, educators, child-development professionals and sensitivity readers where the material touches abuse, racism, disability, body image or family separation. Their purpose is to improve the story’s truthfulness, not to silence difficult subjects. A hopeful book can acknowledge pain while refusing to make pain the whole identity of its characters.

Copyright in a commissioned manuscript is governed principally by the Copyright Act 1968, although ownership can depend on employment status and the terms of the agreement. Put ownership, revisions, royalties, expenses and credit in writing before drafting begins. If research involves identifiable information, recordings or images of children, explain what the Privacy Act 1988 and relevant state or territory obligations require before collecting anything. If the project later becomes an app or online community, the Australian Children’s Code adds important guidance about safety, participation and children’s wellbeing.

Read the manuscript aloud and test it in different formats. Printed picture books need a pace that gives images time to do their work; audiobooks need voices that do not become distracting; accessible editions need descriptions that carry meaning without overwhelming the story. Consider the Australian market as you prepare submissions, including independent bookshops, school libraries, public library services and the importance of book fairs. Local booksellers and teachers can identify which subjects, formats and age categories are genuinely being sought, while broad media attention does not guarantee strong day-to-day sales.

Make empowerment part of the writing process

Revise with a specific question: what does this girl get to decide, initiate, challenge or contribute? If the answer is never, the plot may be steering her through someone else’s plan. Look for scenes in which she is praised, rescued or corrected, then test whether the praise and consequence could belong to her instead. This does not mean every conflict should go her way. A meaningful choice may still end in disappointment, provided she acts with understanding and retains her sense of worth.

Evaluation helps when the outcome is judged by more than sales or awards. A teacher might report that students discussed the book; a librarian might see children requesting it again; a parent might notice a child naming a feeling for the first time. Writers can still doubt the value of their work, so I have written about celebrating genuine wins without pretending that confidence arrives automatically. Keep records of reader responses, classroom discussions, thoughtful feedback and sustained interest. These details are evidence, not decoration.

Bring the story into the community once it is ready. Offer a story session at a local library, arrange a school appearance, work with a girls’ youth group or invite young readers to create alternative endings. Keep activities voluntary, accessible and free of pressure to perform confidence. A launch can celebrate the book without making the author the only centre of attention. When girls are invited to respond, illustrate and question the narrative, the story becomes a resource they can interpret in their own words.

A practical comparison can reveal where a draft places agency and where it removes it: