How a Joke Became a Word

Cedar Valley News
August 24, 2026
How a Joke Became a Word
By Teresa Nikas

I spent an hour this morning writing four sentences. They were the little praise lines meant to make a person want the thing being sold, and I was fussing over every word, as I do. And somewhere in the fussing, I wrote down the trade word for what I was making, and it stopped me cold. Because I happen to know exactly where the word came from. I know the man who made it up, and the year, and the dinner where he did it.

The word is blurb.

In 1907, a humorist named Gelett Burgess was invited to the yearly dinner of the American Booksellers’ Association. It was the custom for the author guests to hand out copies of their latest books, and Burgess, being a humorist, could not resist a joke. He printed a mock cover for his book, the sort of gushing, breathless praise novel jackets already wore, and on it he drew a swooning young woman he named Miss Belinda Blurb, caught in the very act of blurbing. It was a parody. He was making fun of empty praise, the puffery publishers slap on a cover to move copies. He invented the word to mock the thing. And there is the joke inside the joke, the part an old editor loves. He coined blurb to mock hollow praise, and the word he built out of ridicule became the calm, working name for the very praise he was ridiculing. The mockery wore off. The word stayed.

And here is what I cannot get over, sitting at my desk more than a hundred years later. The joke got away from him. The word was too good. Publishers heard it, and instead of being stung, they took it up. The New York Times printed it the same spring. And within seven years, by 1914, blurb was not a joke anymore. It was simply the word, the plain, neutral, everyday name for the thing, in every publishing house in the country. Nobody recalled it was ever a wisecrack. Nobody recalled Belinda. It had become, quietly, a word like any other.

I tell you this because we did the very same thing this month, here at this paper, and I would like you to watch what happens next.

We made up a word. We call the piece we send you each morning a fictorial, a made-up story with every fact inside it true. We coined it a few weeks ago, and if you are reading this, you are watching it in the exact stage blurb was in on the night of the 1907 dinner. Brand new. A little embarrassed. Not yet in any dictionary. Wondering whether it will be laughed off or taken up.

And here is the part nobody teaches you, the part I had backward for most of my life as an editor. I used to think words came down to us, handed from the dictionary, from the authorities, from on high. Blurb taught me the truth. Words come up. From a joke at a dinner. From one mouth, and then another mouth, and then a thousand mouths, until one day the dictionary notices what everyone has already been saying for years, and hurries to write it down. The dictionary is not the source. It is the last to know.

A word does not need my permission, or anyone’s blessing, to begin. It needs a maker, which it has. Ours was not a humorist at a dinner but a small paper in a made-up town. No matter. After the maker, a word needs you.

Blurb had seven years and a whole trade full of people saying it. Fictorial has a few weeks, and it has you. There is the entire machinery, and there is no other engine. A word lives because ordinary people, for no better reason than they like it, keep saying it aloud until it stops sounding invented.

You do not have to visit a museum to watch a word be born. You are holding one.

Say it once, and you will have done for fictorial exactly what some bookseller did for blurb, at a dinner, in 1907, never dreaming he was making history from a joke.

Cedar Valley News has a Facebook group. If you have comments and want to join the conversation, you are welcome. So: have you used the word fictorial yet, out loud, in a sentence, on somebody who did not see it coming? Come and tell us where, and whether they blinked. And if we get something wrong, tell us, and we will run the correction. https://bit.ly/40p8jKy

Cedar Valley News is free, and it comes to your inbox every morning, six days a week. If this morning’s fictorial was worth your time, please forward it to someone who would value it. And if someone forwarded it to you and you’d like your own each morning, just reply with the word “subscribe.”

This fictorial is part of the fictional Cedar Valley News series, written by Evan Swensen, Publisher, and Claude Marshall, AI Developmental Editor. While the town of Cedar Valley is fictional, the history of the word blurb is real. The American humorist Gelett Burgess coined it in 1907 for the annual dinner of the American Booksellers’ Association, printing a mock book jacket featuring a gushing young woman he named Miss Belinda Blurb, as a parody of overblown promotional praise. The New York Times reported the coinage the same spring, publishers adopted the word, and by 1914 it was standard publishing vocabulary. The original is held by the Library of Congress. Sources include Merriam-Webster, the Library of Congress, and The New York Times.

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