December 19, 2020

The Blurb

I remember sitting in a chair on the small strip of beach at the cottage watching my then one-year-old niece Rachel joyfully eat a handful of sand.

“You know your kid is eating sand?” I said, gently pulling her fist from her mouth. 

And Caroline, my sister-in-law, looked up from her book, shrugged her shoulders and said “Third child.”

I get that now.

The story you are now reading is in my third collection. I worked hard on these stories and am proud of them. But I am a lot more laid back and zen about the process. For example, when I finished my first collection, I got a little obsessed about getting a good quote from another writer, what is known as a blurb, for the back cover.

For this book, I don’t really care about a blurb. To tell you the truth, I am happy to let it eat sand.

How quickly things have changed.

Now I knew that in literary circles the blurb game was one which firmly fell into the ‘you scratch my back and I will scratch yours’ convention. The thing is, I didn’t know any famous writers whose backs I had scratched. I didn’t know any moderately famous writers. I barely knew any writers at all. I don’t have an MFA from Iowa or any of the other venerable writing schools where my classmates would have gone on to win Pen or Booker prizes. I spent a good part of my adult life selling industrialized coatings for my Uncle Henri. I supposed I could ask Ed Razalowki of Powder Tech Coatings if he could put in a good word. Ordinarily, your publisher or agent is in charge of securing the blurbs. They would call in a favor. But I was self-publishing. I was the publisher and the agent. I had no one to call.

I hate asking for favors. So I don’t. Ok, I might ask my doctor friends to look at the occasional photo or two of a troubling mole. But that’s it. No rides to the airport. No painting my house. No helping me move. No special deals or discounts. Not a dollar for any charity. I always write the cheque myself. I’m not saying it makes me better than you. I’m just saying.  But I really wanted a blurb. So I sent an email out to friends and family. Did anyone know a writer who might read my book and provide a review I could use as a blurb. I sent it out to my mailing list. In retrospect, I should have specified ‘famous or well-known writer’. It would have prevented me from having to explain to Samantha’s husband’s second cousin from South Africa that a review from the guy who wrote Wetland Fowl in the Capetown Basin was probably not going to give me the marketing push I needed.

In the meantime, Lewberg had a guy.

Now the thing about Lewberg is his guys are not garden-variety guys. You didn’t ask Lewberg if you needed a guy to shovel your driveway or prune your azaleas. You called Lewberg if you were dating a woman who had a penchant for unpasteurized raw cheese. For that, Lewberg knew a guy. You also didn’t call Lewberg if you were looking for a deal. Lewberg didn’t do deals. He didn’t know a guy at Best Buy who could give you his employee discount for a 75-inch flat screen. Lewberg’s guys were not cheap. But if you wanted to sit front row to watch The Boss. Well then Lewberg knew a guy.

Lewberg’s guy was a very well-known American writer who had had a very well received and equally well selling novel a few years ago. His next few books did not do as well but he was still considered top flight. I won’t tell you his name, but if I did, you definitely would have heard of him. For a fee, which I will also not mention, he would write a glowing review. It was a big number. I was just digesting the number when Lewberg went on to say that for double, the novelist would actually read the book. I told Lewberg thanks but I was going to pass. I guess I would publish the book without a blurb. Then I got a text from Downtown Darren Brown.

“I gave your book to Morley Torgov.”

Morley Torgov is a very well-known and respected Canadian writer. He is a two-time recipient of the Leacock Gold Medal for humor. He is 92 years old. I had read many of his books. I was a fan. Getting a review from him would be a feather in my cap. I ask Darren how he knows him. It turns out, that in addition to having a successful writing career, Torgov was also a lawyer. When he retired, Darren bought his practice. They were both colleagues and friends.

“Wow! Thanks,” I say. “How should I follow up?”

“Give him a couple of weeks then give him a call. I will text you his number. He sounded very enthusiastic. He is expecting your call. He is a super nice guy.”

I was ready to print. But two weeks would not make a difference. I patiently counted the 14 days and then called. Darren Brown was absolutely right. Torgov was friendly and funny and erudite. He could not have been nicer and was extremely generous with his time. We chatted a while about books, the state of Canadian publishing, and then traded our favorite Darren Brown stories. He then put me on hold in order to get pen and paper so he could jot down my address. He was going to mail me his review. I thanked him profusely and was about to hang up but then worked up the nerve to ask him for his initial impression.

“Well,” he said. And then he hesitated for about five seconds. It felt like five hours. I hoped Morley Torgov wasn’t the kind of man who felt like he always had to tell the truth.

Finally he broke the silence and with a laugh and the weight of 92 year’s worth of wit, humor and experience behind him said:

“Let me put it this way, I wouldn’t want to sit next to you on a long plane ride.”

The end.

Morley Torgov’s letter, with an extremely kind and generous review, arrived two weeks later.

“There’s an ancient Chinese saying: life is the search for the truth and there is no truth. Aaron Zevy, an Egyptian Jew, has proven the Chinese were dead right. But don’t let Zevy’s humor fool you; there are serious bells ringing in these stories. Advice to the reader: Enjoy the book, but think twice about being seated next to Zevy on a long flight.”