Last week, something unusual happened in the book industry: authors of colour spoke out.
This doesn’t happen often. If you’re a writer from a marginalised background, speaking out risks being labelled difficult or a troublemaker. When you’re a minority in an overwhelmingly white industry, it’s easy to see how that silence is perpetuated. Many of us have become used to weighing up whether it’s worth saying anything at all.
The catalyst was this year’s Bath Children’s Literature Festival, which has been running for almost twenty years. A promotional social media post showcased some of the authors appearing later this year. A children’s writer of colour pointed out that everyone featured was white. They asked whether it was really acceptable in 2026 for a major children’s literature festival to appear so lacking in representation, and whether writers would once again stay silent as though this were normal.
The organisers responded that the festival had seven authors of colour and that the post had only highlighted a selection of participants. When this reply became public, other authors joined in the discussion, questioning whether seven writers of colour across a programme of more than 80 authors—just 8.4% of the line up—was good enough.
More authors received private emails from the organisers asking them to remove their social media posts and publish statements admitting that their comments were untrue, “with equal prominence in the form that they were initially made”. In one case, an author’s agent was contacted directly while they were on holiday. Whatever the intention behind these emails, they did little to create the impression that debate was welcome.
For years, children’s publishing has talked about diversity and inclusion. Through various schemes, apprenticeships, scholarships and other initiatives, some progress has been made. When I was growing up, I never read a book with characters who had names like mine. Now, it’s common to see characters from all walks of life, from picture books right through to young adult fiction. There are many people and organisations working hard to make children’s publishing more representative. But moments like this suggest that we are still uncomfortable with honest conversations about how far we have – or haven’t – come.
There are also signs that this progress can’t be taken for granted. While statistics are limited for writers and illustrators of colour as a whole, a recent report in The Bookseller found that sales for Black authors in the UK slipped during the first 24 weeks of 2026. Just 14 Black authors appeared in the top 1,000 earning list.
Representation within children’s books tells a more nuanced story. The latest Centre for Literacy in Primary Education’s Reflecting Realities survey found that 24% of children’s books published in 2024 featured a racially minoritised main character, up from 17% the previous year. While this marks a welcome improvement, it still falls short of the 30% recorded in 2022. For context, over a third (38.7%) of primary school-aged children in the UK are from non-white ethnic backgrounds.
The responsibility for ensuring children see themselves reflected on festival stages doesn’t rest solely with the programmers. Publishers, agents, booksellers, reviewers, podcasters, bloggers and writers all play a part in deciding which voices are amplified and which remain on the margins. If the same handful of authors are repeatedly invited to speak for entire communities, then we haven’t solved the problem. All children need to see themselves represented and to know that they and their stories matter.
One positive outcome of last week’s incident was that authors finally decided to stop being quiet. And it wasn’t just authors of colour, but allies who were equally outraged. Any industry that says it wants to do better should be able to withstand respectful criticism without seeing it as a threat.
As a relatively new children’s writer, with one book published and another due out next year, I’ve been heartened by the support. Last week showed that there are people across children’s publishing who care deeply about making the industry more inclusive.
While Bath Children’s Literary Festival didn’t engage publicly with the criticism, it did put out a statement on Instagram, saying: “We have listened to the comments made and will endeavour to try harder next year … Moving forward we have already brought new people into the management of the festival to help us with this and are aiming to have a new steering committee that will support us to deliver a more diverse line up.”
This sounds laudable, but the truth is that this situation was entirely avoidable. Conversations about representation in children’s publishing have been taking place for many years now, even if largely one-sided. In 2026, we shouldn’t have to explain to one of the country’s leading children’s literature festivals how and why they need to draw up a more diverse list of speakers.
And Bath isn’t alone. Even children’s literature festivals in London can still present programmes that are overwhelmingly white, despite serving one of the most diverse cities in the world. As I told The Guardian last week, we are not living in Regency Bath, nor 1950s London. It is unacceptable.
Children’s books often ask young readers to grapple with difficult conversations about fairness and belonging. Our industry should be prepared to do the same. And perhaps one day, as with the very best children’s stories, this one will have a happy ending too.
An incisive and searing assessment of diversity in the publishing scene: who’s invited and who’s not and why it matters. Thanks.