A Mime in Times Square

Last night I went to the back door and called for my dog. (He’s a white cocker spaniel with buff ears and freckles. We named him “Joe” for the legendary Joe Cocker. But my youngest daughter nicknamed him “JoJo” and it stuck.) “JoJo!” I called. Nothing. I whistled and clicked my tongue. He didn’t come, and upon further inspection, he was nowhere to be found. Our family dog had vanished. My eight-year old daughter, the baby of the family, was heartbroken. She ran into the yard crying, yelling his name. “What if someone stole him?” she wailed. “Or if he got hit by a car? Oh what can we do? What can we do?” “Let’s make some signs,” I said. I went to the place I keep blank poster board and pulled out a sheet. And that’s when I saw it. The sign. “HOW TO VACUUM.” Now jump to flashback. (Flashbacks should only be used sparingly and never in a picture book. But this is a blog, so here goes. Back to the dog story in a bit.) My son Kyle, who has autism, was attending high sch...

For Meghan Ruby (Last Name Withheld) Meghan, I never knew you. I first learned of you sixteen years ago when I was visiting my mother’s grave. I looked up from the bench where I was sitting in the cemetery and noticed a woman walking toward a gravesite in the distance. She knelt down, and her hands immediately went to work. Carefully and with great concentration she removed items from a bag and arranged them around your headstone. Exactly what items I couldn’t see from my vantage point. She was alone, and the wind blew through the trees in long steady breaths, tossing her hair. There was no one else in the cemetery. Just me and the woman. It was peaceful. She continued for quite a while. It had to be done exactly right. Something must go here, something must go there. After some time she stood up, took several steps back, and admired what she had done. Although she was a young mother, perhaps in her late twenties, her face was that of a much older person--weathered from heartache. My l...

As suggested by author Shannon Hale, I’m sharing a frustrating author experience as part of her “Mortification Monday” topic. So here goes. One morning I drove through a raging blizzard to find a school that had booked me for an assembly. I couldn’t even see the street signs, and was SO grateful for my faithful GPS. I got out of my car and trudged through the snowy parking lot. I was dragging 70 instruments, my projector, and my laptop in a giant rolling suitcase, dressed in my presenter attire. It was comical. I was slipping, pulling snow, and my toes were numb. Entering the school, I brushed myself off, found the front office and went inside. “May I help you?” asked the secretary. “Hello. I’m here for the assembly,” I said. “What assembly?” “The author assembly. I’m Kristyn Crow.” “Kristine…I’m sorry, what was your last name?” “Crow.” “Are you a parent coming to watch, then?” “No, I’m the presenter.” “Ohhhhh. Okay. Well, the principal wants to talk to you about it,” sh...

Last fall, I planted tulip bulbs. 100 of them. Purple, pink, and white, randomly along the borders of my front porch. And as the cold days of winter have moved across the calendar—slowly, like clouds in the wind, I’ve waited for spring. And I’ve decided that planting the bulbs was an exercise in hope. There is hope in planting tulip bulbs, just as there is hope in writing a story. You put in the effort knowing there will be no recompense for a long time. The hope in a story is that someone will understand it, connect with it, embrace it. Maybe a soul will be enlightened by it, have an emotional response, an epiphany, or even just a few good laughs while reading it. The hope is that someone will admire it and find it beautiful—and share it with the world. The hope is that the hard work will eventually be rewarded. But manuscripts must first survive a cold winter. A winter of silence, doubt, and discouragement. A period of rejection and waiting. As long as the bulbs are in the ground, th...

What you’ll get if you sign up for my picture book class this June in Sandy, Utah: 1. A whole bunch of handouts with helpful writing and marketing information. 2. A list of more than 50 literary agents acquiring picture book manuscripts, and their contact information. 3. A cool souvenir binder to keep your materials together. 4. Hands-on analysis of picture books (I’ll provide them) – including the classics, best-sellers, books with gimmicks, etc., and why they work. (Or don’t.) 5. Critique sessions for your manuscripts, including a “critique sheet” filled out by class members, to help you find trends in the feedback. 6. The opportunity to analyze your manuscript from the perspective of an editor who must “pitch” your story in an acquisitions meeting. 7. A friendly classroom atmosphere in a beautiful setting with mountain views. Plus, a break from the routine of your life, and the opportunity to devote a solid week to your craft! 8. Breakout sessions with bestselling authors such as...

That’s an excellent question. You see, Ace’s mama sews the necks of his shirts with ultra-stretch fabric around the collar. He refuses to wear button-up shirts because they’re so itchy. Picky kid, that Ace. But oh, what undiscovered talent! They decided to go green. Three-wheeled cars use less energy than four-wheeled cars. What? Your family still drives a four -wheeled car? Heavens, no. Hare has a mild stutter whenever he gets nervous. So the narrator is just imitating his speech patterns, for dramatic effect. The monster was created using the DNA of a frog, an alligator, a t-rex, and a pinch of Barney the dinosaur. Somebody also threw in the DNA of a monkey, which enables him to scale trees. How does he play them? Ultra smoothly with a cooooooool jazzy beat. Stand up to a mirror and squish your nose against it. Look yourself in the eye while you’re doing it. That’s exactly how somebody who’s “a little snuffled” feels. He already came out, when lightning struck his grave. It was a ver...

Yesterday my eighteen-year-old son with autism was wiping off the kitchen counter. He stopped, blinked a few times and said, “Mother, am I normal?” I looked up from my laptop, surprised. He’d never asked me such a thing before. We made eye contact. I scanned my brain files for the correct response. “I mean, what does normal mean?” he asked. “Does it mean medium? Or good? Regular? Or average? Or ordinary?” One of his favorite things to do is to search for the meaning of words . He’ll frequently ask me for definitions, and is especially interested in classifying words with similar connotations. But this was a profound question he was asking. What DOES normal mean, anyway? “I suppose normal means regular or ordinary. Average ," I said. I thought about my son in his early childhood. He would scream in frustration at his inability to communicate his wants and feelings. In those days, I was an overwhelmed young mother with small children, trying to deal with what felt lik...