Quote my words, take my picture, share my ideas and conversation, make public who I am, what I think, how I live, is turning what used to be my private life into a public performance. Publishing contracts need to move beyond licensing the publication of a static text byproduct of my time and imagination, and become a performance contract, allowing all of us online citizens to craft and enact business arrangements for living out loud.

I was searching for book publishing solutions and after considerable research and development, I would offer the following link to my personal “Dos and Dont’s for Publishing and Publishing Guide for Authors and Creatives”.

Many are evolving as this is being written, with alot of competitors constantly launching new platforms and services. These may be helpful to avoid mistakes, lend projects some “secrets for success’ and discuss fundelemental steps and tools for marketing books and ebooks.

Looking forward, the future of publishing is going to be potentially confusing for the unitiated, particularily the e-publishing world. One way to brave this new future is to consider the dynamics of the entire development, design, distribution, promotion and marketing pipeline.

Link: http://www.groupemdg.typepad.com/global_media_and_its_impa_/2013/10/dos…

Boris Golitsin was a bear and that was the only similarity Andromeda had seen between him and her father. Smallwolf Baginski had been skinny, for a bear, and somebody she had trusted for more reasons that just because he was her father. If he had ended up in Valhalla, as he had believed he would, Ragnarök was not going to be what was expected. Smallwolf had been, like his father before him, a Sergeant of the Landing Force, and the Landing Force trained and fought to win.
He had never been flabby. Even when he was deadly serious, he had never been dour. He was the man you wanted around when there was trouble.
Andromeda was more like him than she realised.
Golitsin had not made a pass at her, but the way he watched her was discomforting. And there were times when she wondered if he even heard what she was saying. If he had been ruthless it had been a ruthlessness that did not take risks. It had been a ruthlessness without rejoicing in achievement. And, while Stepney Estates could supply what he wanted, she was beginning to wonder just what he planned to use them for.
Some office blocks had Executive Dining Rooms, but not this one. It was, Hugh had once told her, somewhat like the way the Army fed itself in the field everyone getting the same food, Gonville Todd queuing with everyone else and if something was going wrong, he would hear about it. Golitsin was uncomfortable and Andromeda liked that. It would give her an edge.
She didn’t touch the wine. The catering crew knew her, and the coffee they had brewed for her was made to suit her tastes. They knew what she had done at Davos, and it had been for people like them. They reckoned she was worth the effort.
Golitisin’s meal was only a matter of professional pride.
Her mug was most particularly hers, oversized, and bearing the Landing Force badge, and not the official one. She loaded up with a refill when she finished, and she noticed that Golitsin seemed bemused by the way that everyone did their own clear up, even the big boss. Maybe he didn’t notice the chance it gave for a private comversation.
“Has he made an offer yet?”
“Just the sort of logistics he wants, nothing about why or how much.” She asked for her refill. “I think he sees me as beneath him.”
Gunny smirked for a moment. “I imagine he might.”
“He hasn’t a chance.”
“Try not to kill him too much, my dear.”
“Did he really arrange to have you and Mother mugged?”
“The loathsome chap who tried was Bulgarian, No evidence, but the Bulgars did a lot of dirty work for the KGB. Golitsin was Sixth Directorate, which was…
“…economic warfare, officially counter-intelligence.” Andromeda grinned. “Spying on industry is a great way to line up some good deals for after you quit your government job.”
“He was keeping their secrets for them, my dear.”
“And I am sure he is adequately paid for that.”
“You’re being cynical.”
Andromeda shrugged, and picked up her mug of coffee. “I am an anarchist. I have a theory of mind that says sane people help each other, and I am a protector. Not like that silly American novel, not some weird mutation driven by exotic chemistry or the bite of a radioactive spider, but I do what I do because I believe it is right. I think you’re just a better liar than I am.”
“Age and experience.” Gonville Todd winked. “It depends what he thinks you are.”
“Most likely, a victim.”
“He will get a shock.”

The Boardroom was designed to impress. Gonville Bellman had gained a certain reputation for taste from the design of Stepney House, and the boardroom had the same sense of practically applied good taste. It signalled, to those with the mental tools to notice, that Stepney Estates was run by somebody who could do whatever they wanted, and chose carefully.
And it was not a room which favoured any person, or suggested that somebody was in charge. Andromeda settled in a chair which was comfortable for her tail and sipped at her coffee. Her iPhone, fresh-rooted that morning, and as secure as any personal mechanism could be, seemed quiescent. She looked safe, in herself and towards others.
Gonville introduced the others to Golitsin. There was her oldest brother, Ranulf Baginski, her cousins, Roberta and Charlie Bellman, Robert Thorneycroft, and Maurice Oxford. She paid attention to how Golitsin reacted. There was a difference in how he looked at Roberta. One which didn’t surprise her.
It was Maurice Oxford who dropped the bombshell. Right from the start he had been playing up his accent, but Andromeda had no trouble stripping away the Mancunian veneer.
“We will have no problem with delivery, but we do not recommend you put the Server Farm in Luxembourg. The EU Commission is instituting proceedings to harmonise their very low tax rate on electronic delivery of goods. Our assessments are that you will be unable to sustain your pricing model.”
Andromeda picked up the ball. “What this means for us is that our investment in hardware and the increasingly expensive local workforce will not be repaid. Your business model depends on winning a price war with Amazon, and we are not willing to extend you credit for that purpose.”
“We have the money,” said Golitsin. “I declare to you that I can personally supply up to one billion Euro for this purpose. In addition, we are making provisions to get a revenue stream from sales of advertising space within the ebooks. You appreciate that this is in confidence.”
“Of course,” said Gonville.
“Amazon,” said Maurice, “reported UK sales of over seven billion pounds. Somewhere over 10 billion Euro, depending on exchange rates. I doubt that your billion will be enough. They have a reputation that allows them to lose money.”
“I can guarantee one billion Euro. I have assurances of more that would be made available at need.” Golitsin smiled.
Gonville looked back at him, and there was something in his smile that Andromeda recognised. She had seen it in newsreel footage of her Grandfather, a long time ago when he had sailed into the Spontoons lagoon with a ship recovered from pirates. It was the sort of smile that you could image being smiled by Drake, and any number of near-pirates.
It was a smile which scared her, because she knew when she had smiled it. And Golitsin was not bragging.
She could guess where the money was coming from, and he wasn’t trying to launder it. He was going to lose it.
It was not a way of fighting she was used to, but she could recall instances from history, history that was encompassed by her Uncle’s lifetime. The Russians would spend a million men to defeat a few hundred thousand, but they knew their losses would be replaced.
Golitsin was no Stalin.
Andromeda half-closed her eyes, and sipped cooling coffee, and wondered if she had been mistaken about a Mad Queen. She had seen it, spent a lifetime with the Soviet Union as a threat, had an idea of what drove them. And it was the same for her Uncle.
She wondered what the weather was like in Valhalla.

The content is the king, and the device is not important anymore. Print, e-book, mobile, digital or live shows – everything shall mix in the same bowl. A consumer will buy a print book together with the online edition and an interactive wisdom of the crowd platform. the new publishers should adjust themselves into a publishing process that never ends. From the minute that the book is published, it will always live and kick because of the crowd that will add his insights on the fly. No borders between different devices, no borders between the author and the readers, no borders between the true facts and the wisdom of marketing forces. It will definitely be interesting and cjallenging, and we will always have the print edition, to rely on..

1.content is king. So author can directly get advantanage with the help of technology.  I think print will no longer in market, its good for user that can easily get the content any time.

it is very difficult to remain in publishing after the revolution of the electronics and all the new devices it is the new chalange of the business

I own a small number of shares in Amazon, and wish I’d bought a lot more when I invested.

The key to being successful in ELT publishing is to remain in touch with the needs of specific ELT communities and to embrace practitioners’ ideas and experience to create flexible and customisable resources.

Social, instant, interactive and more gonna be normal..

Disclosure: I own a small number of shares in Amazon, and wish I’d bought a lot more when I invested.

Andromeda, like many other people, was walking. But most of them, working their way along the ancient streets of London towards the City, were anything but the elite. Walking was cheap, and from Stepney is was an easier commute than the overcrowded trains from the outer reaches of suburbia. It cost nothing, and you got wet when it rained, and you were not tied by anything to a particular workplace, which was good because the bosses felt no respect for you.
Nobody talked, or read a newspaper, or played games on a tablet computer. In the bustling crowds you were along with your thoughts. Like Andromeda they wore sensible shoes, and walked steadily, and if the weather forecast had been bad they wore something practical and weatherproof over their office-worker uniform that had come off the peg at Asda.
You walked whatever the weather and whatever the time of day, and you worked unpaid overtime or got dismissed for inadequate enthusiasm. You came home tired and had to choose between discovering what was happening and getting enough sleep.
Andromeda didn’t have those worries, but she looked pretty low-class. She wore her Army Union combat jacket, and while the camouflage pattern was different, and the badges meant something if you could read them, it looks like the army surplus of the lowest class of worker.
The well dressed man on the train she could hear passing overhead as she went under the railway and onto Cable Street might think he was responsible for huge risks, but she had risked everything, and playing in the ultimate high-stakes game, amongst the mountains of the old North-West Frontier. Her father and grandfather had done the same, and they had come back alive because they loaded the dice. There was going to be a meeting later, with one of those Russian billionaires who seemed to want to buy England, and it was going to be different.
They hadn’t been to Eton, and they were old enough to have grown up in the Soviet Union, been conscripted, and been in the right place to make a fortune when State Communism collapsed. It all meant that they had to be hard men.
And they likely knew people like them, in the government of the new Russia, and if billions of dollars had vanished from the Winter Olympics, they likely knew exactly where it had gone. London was nothing like Afghanistan, but she was a troubleshooter for Stepney Estates, and she would not hesitate if the troubleshooting needed live ammunition.
Though that was not a good answer for the streets of London.

Stepney Estates owned an office block close to the bragging platform they called Canary Wharf, and if you wanted to see Money Launderers, you could easily spot the logo of one world-spanning bank which had managed to survive the mistake of getting caught. She could stand at her office window with a pair of binoculars, and what the crowd streaming into the DLR station on the far side of the old dock, and she knew she was seeing crooks.
She knew she was seeing a lot of people who ignored their suspicions for the chance to come back to work the next day.
“I would,” she announced to Lydia Walton, “Go back to the Spontoon Islands and volunteer to shoot somebody, if this week got to be the usual.”
“Boris Golitsin isn’t that bad, surely.”
Andromeda transferred her Fairbairn-Sykes from the sleeve-pocket of her combat jacket to the scabbard under her skirt. “I am sick of hearing about hard-working people as an excuse. That bastard wants to treat us like mushrooms.”
“So why did you come here?”
“Gunny is family, and he’s on our side. You know he’s different. Would you run out on him?”
“If somebody went after my family…” Lydia stopped. “If I told him what was happening, I suppose he would tell you, and you would be leaving London one step ahead of the law.”
Andromeda nodded. “If it ever gets that bad, I can expect to spend the rest of my days on a tropical beach, selling ‘kiss me quick’ hats to tourists.”
“That almost sounds like fun.”
“If things turned that bad, they’d have my DNA on file. I would be on the watch-lists of every country in the world.”
Lydia nodded. “You tell me that, and I can see it happening, but they say they’re hunting terrorists, and they hardly seem to find any.”
“I admit I have worked with better people.” Andromeda walked across the room to her desk. “I swear you find better information with a Google search than that mob can get from tapping every phone on the planet.”
“You have to ask the right questions.” Lydia set a folder on the desk. “That’s the latest briefing on Golitsin.” Another folder. “And that is the final results on what the simulation team came up with. The Quants are scared.”

Sprint beyond the book is a great idea, but in future it would be great to do this as a fictional story. Let’s say it’s about Lea and she is 25 years old. She is magical and all alone in the world. She needs to find a friend or she will die. For example. This is cheesy. But zou know what I mean. And everybody is allowed to write one or two sentences and it will go on and on for ever! That would be interesting. The END.

With the inevitable future of mass storage of digitally archived materials, the key will be to use properly supported data centers for the housing and protection of the valuable information.  With more libraries and universities looking at this as a way to support the masses, they also need to have strong backup plans for the possbility of diaster.  Good recovery plans make it viable for libraries to get their networks back on line for the continued access but also for the protection of their valuable materials for the public and students to re-gain access to the needed information.  With many companies, hospitals, libraries and education facilities, this information is the life-blood of the establishment and without it, this can impact their research as well as (sometimes) their financial bottom line.  Schools and universities are using this more as a selling tool for having these avaialable online resources for both on-campus students as well as for their distance education programs.