Tom Lamont is a writer and commissioning editor for the Observer

A celebrity – Kylie, Sting – announces his or her intention to write for children, and I instinctively feel for the career-pledged writers who have been huffing away with their thesaurus and watercolour brushes for years. Beneath them, the hopefuls with worthwhile manuscripts hustle for interest... And, uh oh, here's another celebrity, lolloping into the game. They've noodled out an idea on a Groucho Club napkin. Their agent has swivelled at the bar to arrange a six-figure deal. The published result, you can bet, will absorb more than its share of publicity budgets, review space, shelf space.

Given the subject under discussion, I'll express this in short sentences. Stop it, celebrities. Go away, celebrities.

John Travolta has written a children's book. Katie Price has written a children's book. Frank Lampard, Katie Price's former kiss-and-tell, has written a children's book. Some that I've read are good; others as sluggish as the career lull that inspired them. But if just one Mini Grey or Anthony Browne has been lost to children's literature thanks to Geri Halliwell's Ugenia Lavender or Gloria Estefan's Noelle the Bulldog, it hasn't been worth it.

Robert Muchamore is author of the multi-million-selling Cherub series of books, and of Henderson's Boys



We like to pretend we're reasonable souls, but most of us are way more petty and jealous than we'd like to admit. I mean, we may hate bankers, but if someone offered you two million a year to wear a snappy suit and yell, "Buy, buy, buy!" down a telephone you wouldn't say no, would you?

When it comes to petty jealousy, David Walliams pushes all my buttons. He started off making a heap of money out of puke jokes and dressing up as a woman. He does a [affects Harry Enfield voice] lot of work for charity. What reasonable person wasn't hoping for a mass jellyfish spawning when he swam down the Thames? Then he starts writing children's books, tops the charts, and now sells way more books than I do. I've never met him, but I'm convinced he moved into children's fiction exclusively to annoy me.

But when the green mist clears, I reluctantly realise that I have no more right to tell Mr Walliams whether or not he can write children's books than I had to enact my fantasy to drop a studio light on his head during Sport Relief.

And let us not forget: publishing is not just about authors, it's a huge industry. Successful books pay the wages of editors, agents, printers, lorry drivers and booksellers – and, of course, in the case of the vast majority of celebrity books, the person who actually writes them.

TL And the reader? Are celebrity voices, however mangled by good intention or bad writing, really the ones we want murmured into children's ears before they nap? I'm amazed we haven't already called a moratorium on this. It's been 25 years since the Duchess of York published Budgie the Little Helicopter. Forget steam trains or farm animals, kids: private helicopters are adorable.

I love, by the way, that so many celebrities enter literature through the children's section. It says so much – not about the children's section itself, too easily belittled, but about the rapacious needs of the famous.

I imagine the thinking goes: "I'm a bloody brilliant singer / comedian / model / footballer / royal. Look at my shelf of Brits and Baftas and Elle Style Awards and Coca-Cola Cups. Everyone chuckles at my jokes and quivers at my meaningful statements. I can get an invite on to Alan Carr: Chatty Man whenever I want. Why haven't I written a really good book?"

But a really good book is hard to write. And even a shit book takes ages. Now, a children's book…

How many words were there in Goodnight Moon? A hundred? It's seen as easy work, a short cut to reputation-padding bibliography. And this is offensive (isn't it?) to the children's authors who devote themselves to writing for developing minds; who agonise; who know that, actually, those 100 words of Goodnight Moon are just perfect.

RM Amid actors, politicians, TV chefs and, very occasionally, authors invited to headline the top literary festivals, another species exists way down the pecking order. Facing the summer heat in giant fur costumes, dressed as aliens, giraffes and pandas, publicists entertain the little kids. There's no point sending the authors of picture books to festivals, because until age seven or eight, kids want to see Kipper the Dog or Elmer the Elephant.

So while a celebrity name might sway a few parents into buying a picture book, the kids who read them not only don't know who the celebrity is, but usually don't even understand what an author is.

Are older kids who choose books for themselves more vulnerable to the pull of celebrity? Are the children's book charts clogged with celebrity names? Nope! Everyone from Theo Walcott to Ross Kemp has made a stab at children's novels, and the vast majority ended up being loaded on return carts and gobbled by skip-sized shredding machines inside publishers' warehouses.

David Walliams' success as a children's author is an anomaly. He actually writes his own books, and as anyone who has ever sat a 10-year-old boy in front of an episode of Little Britain will attest, he knows how to make kids laugh.

Real authors like me have little to fear! Celebrity status may get your foot in the publisher's door, but you won't get a kid past chapter one if your story doesn't cut the mustard.

TL Well, let's hope they don't get to chapter three of Perfect Ponies: Secret Surprises (Katie Price, 2009) anyway. "I just wish I was rich and famous, or there was something I was really good at that I could make loads of money from." Or see the cover of Madonna's The English Roses, with its promotional offer of "exclusive VIP membership".

There have been a few terrific celeb-written kid's books, among them Ricky Gervais' Flanimals series and Harry Hill's Tim the Tiny Horse ("He didn't always say 'neigh', but when he did he meant it"). But I'll leave you with this, perhaps more representative – Frank Lampard's conclusion to chapter six of Frankie's Magic Football. "[Frankie] lifted his right foot, twisted his hips, and connected sweetly... The volley flew between the posts." Welcome to your reading lives, children.

RM The London 2012 Olympics opening ceremony highlighted children's literature as a cornerstone of British culture. Kids read my books on the Tokyo metro. I've been honked in the street in Lisbon, had the biggest book signing in Sydney since Ian Thorpe and had gendarmes organising fans who were blocking an (admittedly narrow) Parisian street. If I'd sold eight million albums I'd be all over the tabloids, but after eight million kids' books I can pick 3-for-2s in the Crouch End Waitrose without fear of molestation.

It's time we recognised our top kids' authors for the cultural icons that they really are, and rewarded them with their rightful place in the celebrity limelight. I could display my intelligence and wit on Have I Got News For You; Michael Morpurgo could sing with the stars, and Philip Pullman can be the elderly one who isn't very good on Strictly. Malorie Blackman can host telethons and we can send Jo Rowling off to the jungle to sleep in the dirt and eat locusts.

And then we can stop this silly fuss, because we'll all be celebrities!

Rock War by Robert Muchamore is out now (Hodder Children's Books £12.99)