Blurbing

This week, while I’m getting all these ain’t-it-too-cool blurbs from famous authors (Phillip Margolin, April Henry, John Lescroart; all of you, seriously, thank you), it reminds me of a true story.

About six years ago, mystery author Katy King asked me to write a blurb for her book, “City of Suspects.” I thought it was great. A Portlander’s Paretsky, if you will. A Great Northwest Grafton. So I agreed to write her a blurb. And because she, frankly, is very hot, I used the opportunity to turn it into a date for drinks.

(I know, I know: you’re supposed to punch your own weight and she is way out of my division. Hey, I get style points for trying.)

Later, in the Salem Statesman Journal newsroom, I showed one of the sports writers her picture and said, “This is cool. I just blurbed her.”

The guy winked at me, hit me on the shoulder and said, “Du-ude.”

It took me a few seconds of confused blinking before the penny dropped. “Um, no. That’s not, like, a colloquialism for sex. It’s… never mind.”

True story.