Well, shame, cast thy gaze elsewhere. The arc-less antics of Dorothy Z. Seymour have nothing on this century’s celebrity-penned picture books, slim volumes that have infiltrated bedroom bookshelves like a pack of moralistic hobgoblins. I do not have children, nor am I a child, so it is not for me to say how many readers were lifted from their pigmented doldrums by Julianne Moore’s “Freckleface Strawberry.” But it is for me to say that having a child qualifies you to write a children’s book the same way that using a toilet qualifies you to be a plumber.journey-inline-newsletterinline-newsletter