A 30-year creative bond comes to a close
Three decades, more than 50 books, and a visual style that defined an era of children’s reading—then a private conversation that changed it all. At the 2025 Hay Festival, Jacqueline Wilson told the audience she was “devastated” when her longtime illustrator Nick Sharratt said he wanted to step away. She didn’t dress it up. He came to her, she said, and explained he needed to focus on other projects. She understood, even if the news landed hard.
Their partnership began in 1991 with The Story of Tracy Beaker, the book that turned a defiant, sharp-witted girl into one of Britain’s most familiar children’s characters. From that point, Sharratt’s bold lines and punchy color blocks became inseparable from Wilson’s voice. The covers and interior art didn’t just decorate the books—they set the tone, made space for humor, and softened tough themes without dodging them.
The run ended officially in 2021 with The Runaway Girls, after the pair agreed a final collaboration the year before. By then, their output had cemented a look and feel that readers could spot across a school library from twenty paces. Wilson’s stories often wrestled with real-life challenges—care homes, complicated families, money worries—and Sharratt’s art carried those stories with warmth and clarity. It didn’t talk down to anyone. It invited kids in.
Wilson, now 79, told the Hay audience that Sharratt, 62, was “brave” for raising the decision directly. There was no feud, no public fallout. Just a creative call from an artist who wanted room for other work. She said she accepted it, even if that acceptance came with a sting. The honesty was a through-line: both of them have always been clear about what their collaboration meant, and how unusual it is to sustain something that intense for so long.
The numbers show the scale. In the UK alone, their books together have sold well over 40 million copies. Tracy Beaker was the most borrowed library book of the 2000s in Britain, according to library lending data from that decade, which tells you how deeply those stories got into everyday reading. And it wasn’t just Tracy. The Illustrated Mum, Dustbin Baby, and Lola Rose became staples on school shelves, while Hetty Feather opened up historical fiction to kids who might otherwise have steered clear.
Ask a bookseller what makes a child pick up a book, and you’ll usually hear the same two words: the cover. That was Sharratt’s arena. He made Wilson’s titles unmistakable. The heavy lines. The confident color. The expressive, cartoon-bright faces. For children who didn’t yet know an author’s name, these covers served as a shortcut: if it looks like this, it will read like this.
Wilson has never hidden how much that visual identity mattered to her storytelling. When the pair announced their final book in 2020, she praised Sharratt’s “eye-catching covers and incredible illustrations.” That gratitude still stands, she said at Hay. And despite the professional split, the personal relationship is intact. They live near each other, they meet up, and they talk. Friends first, colleagues second—just not colleagues anymore.
- First collaboration: The Story of Tracy Beaker (1991)
- Signature titles: The Illustrated Mum (1999), Dustbin Baby (2001), Lola Rose (2003), Hetty Feather (2009)
- Total output: 50+ books together
- Final collaboration: The Runaway Girls (2021)
- UK sales together: 40 million+ copies
That kind of track record changes the industry around it. Librarians leaned on Wilson-Sharratt books because they cut across reading levels. Parents trusted them. Teachers knew a quick way to tempt a reluctant reader. And children built their own mental catalog: if it had Sharratt’s line work and Wilson’s name, it promised pace, heart, and a main character who felt like a real kid—scuffed edges and all.
Ending a partnership like this doesn’t just close a chapter; it forces a shift. Wilson is now working with other illustrators and has talked about a “new look” for coming titles. That’s a big ask: step out from under a visual brand that shaped a generation without losing what readers love. It means fresh cover art, new character designs, and a reintroduction to booksellers who file authors in their heads partly by how their books look.
It also changes the reader’s experience. Children form quick, strong bonds with imagery. If you grew up with the big, bright blocks and clear lines, a different style can feel like a new voice in the room. That’s not a bad thing. It can open doors for kids who didn’t click with the old look. But it does mean managing expectations. Wilson’s promise—stories first, always—will have to do more of the heavy lifting as new covers take over.
For Sharratt, the decision reads as an artist taking control of his time and energy. Illustrating at the pace of a bestselling author is relentless. It means juggling deadlines for covers, interiors, promotional material, and often touring or events. Add in other commissions and personal projects, and there’s a real risk of being defined by one lane. His choice to step back is a reminder that creative careers are marathons, not sprints. You can love a collaboration and still need to leave it to grow.
It’s worth remembering what made this pairing click in the first place. They met through an editor who thought they’d “hit it off.” That hunch turned out to be spot on. Wilson’s dialogue is crisp and conversational. Sharratt’s lines capture expression with just a few strokes. The match was tight enough that it shaped characters far beyond the page. Tracy Beaker moved into TV and became a fixture of children’s culture; Hetty Feather did, too. When people imagine those characters now, they’re often picturing Sharratt’s versions.
In publishing, long-running author–illustrator partnerships are rare. Schedules clash. Tastes change. Editors move. Contracts shift. But when they work, they create an ecosystem: the writer sets the emotional rhythm; the illustrator builds the world around it. Children read the pictures first, then the words. That’s not a slight to the text—it’s just how young readers process information. The Wilson–Sharratt formula respected that, which is why it resonated with so many classrooms and bedrooms.
Wilson didn’t try to rewrite the past on stage at Hay. She was honest about the shock. Nothing dramatic, just a human reaction to losing a collaborator who felt foundational. Then she pivoted to the work. New illustrators are on board. There’s excitement about how the books will look and how that might nudge the stories into fresh spaces. She’s not trying to copy Sharratt’s style. That would be a trap. The goal is continuity of spirit, not mimicry of lines.
The market will watch closely. Retailers will test covers. Schools will see which new designs land on reading lists. Libraries will notice what gets borrowed and what gets left. If past data is any guide, Wilson’s readership will follow her voice, while new art pulls in kids who don’t carry the same nostalgia. The tricky bit is this middle season—reassuring longtime readers that the heart of the books is unchanged while being bold enough to claim a new visual identity.
There’s a bigger conversation here about credit in children’s books. Writers often get the spotlight. Illustrators shape the first impression and, for many kids, the enduring memory. Sharratt’s contribution to Wilson’s world was never just decorative. It set the tone for reading experiences that stretched from bedtime to the classroom. That’s why this split stings even as it makes sense. You don’t easily replace the person who helped define how your stories look and feel.
Wilson and Sharratt handled the end the way they handled the work: plainly and without fuss. No public barbs. No social media skirmishes. Just a quiet line under an extraordinary run, and a statement of continued friendship. In a business that can be noisy and performative, that restraint says a lot.
For readers, the legacy is simple: shelves full of books that made room for complicated emotions and everyday kids. Tracy’s mischief. The vulnerability in The Illustrated Mum. The survival grit of Dustbin Baby. The adventures of Hetty Feather. Those stories still do their job. They’re still being discovered by children who weren’t born when the first Tracy Beaker hit the page.
If you want to understand why Wilson felt “devastated,” think about any creative habit you’ve kept for thirty years. The rituals, the shorthand, the trust that lets you take risks. Then picture removing the person who shared that rhythm. Of course it hurts. Of course you grieve it a little. Then you get back to the desk and start the next chapter.
What the split means for children’s books
Short term, expect a visual reset. New covers will introduce Wilson’s next books, signaling to booksellers and readers that a new era has started. That doesn’t mean abandoning what worked. It means redefining it. Different illustrators can bring fresh texture—maybe a softer palette here, a looser line there. Character design might skew older or younger depending on the story. The key test is whether the art still matches the voice.
For Sharratt, there’s room to stretch. He’s spoken warmly about the “amazing experience” of working with Wilson and the joy of drawing characters like Tracy Beaker and Hetty Feather. Now the bandwidth opens for other collaborations, standalone projects, and whatever else has been waiting in the wings. If his past work is any guide, he’ll continue shaping how children see stories before they read a single sentence.
For the industry, the Wilson–Sharratt story doubles as a case study. Long collaborations can build trust with educators and families. They can also create dependence. Transition plans—announcing a final book, preparing readers for change, setting a new look—matter. The pair did that by naming The Runaway Girls as a sign-off. It gave the partnership a proper ending rather than an abrupt fade.
And for the kids who will pick up the next book with Wilson’s name on it? They’ll do what children always do with stories: open the cover, check the first page, and decide if the voice is speaking to them. If it is, they’ll keep going. The images will help, as they always have. But the bond between reader and author—the one that has carried Wilson’s work across three decades—tends to survive a change in line work.
That’s the quiet power of this moment. A beloved pairing steps aside with grace. The books remain. The audience evolves. And a new visual chapter begins, not to overwrite what came before, but to sit alongside it on the same crowded, well-thumbed shelf.
