A Mime in Times Square

Praise for my Picture Book Critiques: "Kristyn Crow is the expert on picture books. Whenever a friend asks for help with a PB manuscript, I always refer to Kristyn. She knows the ins and outs of the form like no one else." Mette Ivie Harrison, Author of The Princess and the Hound (and more) "Kristyn Crow has special x-ray glasses that make her see right to the bones of my stories. Her writing critiques hit the nail on the head. She's so good she wouldn't even let me use that sentence - because it's a cliché. (I should have asked her to critique this blurb.) She's been workshopping my writing for ten years, and I wouldn't do it without her. Thanks, Kristyn!" Carolyn Fisher, Author/Illustrator of Goodnight, World! (and more) "Kristyn Crow has reviewed my manuscripts for years. I can always count on her for thorough and honest critiques." Danna Smith, Author of Pirate Nap (and more) "Kristyn Crow has great insig...

I'm excited that the new school year has begun, and that I'm back to visiting elementary schools. There is something so joyous about getting children excited about reading. I'm grateful I get to generate enthusiasm for literacy. It's one of my favorite things about being an author. Here's a fun school visit story. I had finished my assembly at one particular school and as children were filing out of the gym, a child approached me. "Those kids don't believe that we're related," he said. A couple of other children stood back, watching us curiously. "They don't believe we're related?" I asked, to be sure I heard him correctly. "Yeah. I told them I was related to you, but they don't believe me." This was a predicament. I had no idea who this child was, and he was asking me to verify that we were relatives in front of his friends. He appeared sincere, almost tearful. What would I do? I looked at t...

A month ago I had a doctor’s appointment that made me a bit nervous. A routine ultra sound had shown a small irregular spot in my uterus. It was only a tiny spot, and this appointment was a follow-up to see whether it had grown or changed. My husband, always supportive, came along. But he just happened to slip away for a moment when the nurse called me in. Not knowing how long he would be, I went into the office alone. Meanwhile, when my husband returned and realized I was already having the second ultrasound—too late for him to enter--he found a way to keep himself busy. He went to the parking lot and found a roll of orange duct tape in the back of my car. With a permanent marker he wrote “I love you Kris” backwards on a strip of the tape. Then he affixed it to the back bumper of my car. This way, he thought, when I put my car in reverse, my back-up camera would reveal the surprise message. The ultrasound results were good. The spot was entirely gone. Perhaps it had only ...

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...