There is an agreeable symmetry to the way in which the leading award for a children’s book first published in Britain should be named after an American — admittedly a Scottish-born one — Andrew Carnegie, provider of more than 3,000 public libraries here and in the United States, while the foremost American award is named after the 18th-century Englishman John Newbery, a friend of Dr Johnson and one of the first publishers of children’s books.

But whereas the Newbery Medal, founded in 1922, has flourished, and very greatly increases the winning author’s profile and sales, the Carnegie Medal has not quite punched its weight during the past couple of decades.

This is not for lack of outstanding winners, such as Philip Pullman’s Northern Lights, David Almond’s Skellig and Beverley Naidoo’s The Other Side of Truth. Rather, the reasons have been to do with has been the rise and rise of other awards for children’s books; the previous want of well co-ordinated publicit and a certain lack of focus or agreement as to what the award is actually for.

Everyone does agree that the medal should be given for a single work, though Walter de la Mare, Eleanor Farjeon and C. S. Lewis all seem to have won late recognition for an oeuvre. And there is no argument that any text whatsoever for children of any age is eligible, although in practice no non-fic tion title has won since Dr I. W. Cornwall’s The Making of Man in 1960.

But there agreement ends, and makes it impossible to do more than generalise about what makes a medal-winner. Once upon a time, the medallist was chosen in rather a high- handed way by the anonymous Publications Committee of The Library Association; now, the process is altogether more democratic, involving not only many children’s librarians but “shadow panels” of children. But their choices in recent years have not resolved the underlying issues.

Does the range of a book’s appeal matter? In 1936, the first winner, Arthur Ransome’s Pigeon Post, was preferred to books by Noel Streatfeild and Howard Spring expressly because it appealed to both boys and girls.

And does it matter whether or not children particularly enjoy the book?

That’s to say, is a winner such as Anne Fine’s hugely enjoyable Goggle-eyes preferable to Alan Garner’s The Owl Service? Peggy Heeks, chair of the 1967 committee, declared that they were not looking for “the most popular book, the most promising book, the most socially useful book” but recognising “quality and quality full-grown, not in the bud”.

Again, should the award regularly recognise wonderful writing for primary school-aged children, as it did with Jan Mark’s Thunder and Lightnings and Robert Westall’s The Machine Gunners? Or should it face up to the equally fine books addressing young teenagers and the painful social problems confronting them, as do Melvin Burgess’s honest and ground-breaking Junk and Berlie Doherty’s compelling Dear Nobody — a book I read from start to finish in one go, pained and joyous and breathless. Of late, the selection committee have tended to favour books for young adults, and there was much murmuring that this year’s shortlist contained not a single book that would really appeal to children aged, say, 8 to 11.

A quick survey of the 70 winning books shows that fantasy fiction and social realism have, on the whole (and in my view regrettably), been much preferred to historical fiction, especially in recent years.

Humorous books have done even less well, although Terry Pratchett’s The Amazing Maurice and his Educated Rodents is a glorious exception.

Of poetry there is nothing at all. So maybe the selection committee will be minded to back up the championship of poetry by the Children’s Laureate.

Of course there are some second-rate children’s books that did win the Medal and plenty of outstanding books that didn’t. I’m not only thinking of J. R. R. Tolkien’s The Hobbit and Ted Hughes’s The Iron Man and Alan Garner’s The Stone Book Quartet, but of novels by Leon Garfield and Geoffrey Trease, Henry Treece, Joan Aiken, Diana Wynne Jones, Jill Paton Walsh.

But now, at a time when children’s books win more sustained and serious reviews than ever before (after many years of drought) and their authors are regularly the subject of features and lifestyle columns to an extent unimaginable even ten years ago, CILIP (the Chartered Institute of Library and Information Professionals, formerly The Library Association) has seized on the Carnegie Medal’s 70th birthday to reassert its stature and that of its companion award for illustrators, the Kate Greenaway Medal, now 50 years old. They have shortlisted their Top Ten, run a public poll, showered libraries with leaflets and posters, and all of this with conspicuous force and success.

The old and somewhat debilitating lack of focus as to the purpose of the prize remains, and I think there is an argument for instigating a kind of double-headed award, one for best book for children up to the age of 11, and one for older children, teenagers, young adults . . . you name them.

But three cheers! The impact of winning the Carnegie Medal on author, book and everyone who cares for children’s books, is palpably growing.

Kevin Crossley-Holland, Saturday, August 11, 3pm, RBS Children’s Theatre, talks about Gatty’s Tale; August 12, 2pm, Scottish-Power Studio Theatre, celebrates the Carnegie with Beverley Naidoo and Melvin Burgess

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