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M A N D Y V A N E S S A M I C H A E L A J A C K I E R I C H A R D N A I X I N

Indigo’s book sales are declining because readers are able to purchase their books more quickly, conveniently and at a lower cost using internet-based retailers.

B U S I N E S S P R O B L E M

http://static.indigoimages.ca/2014/corporate/Indigo_FY14AnnualReport.pdf

2014 2013 2012 2011 year 867,668 878,785 920,149 956,449 950,000 900,000 850,000 800,000 750,000 revenue

We reframed this issue by looking at ways to rebuild a loyal customer base and generating an alternate revenue stream for Indigo.

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F O R M

{ {

O P E N I N G

Expansion through encouragement of aspiration and discovery

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A platform that allows authors to showcase unpublished work and for readers to discover, support, and help bring their stories to the market.

Fiction book enthusiasts have the need to discover new content and trending topics. In the last 2 years, juvenile book sales comprise one-third of book sales in Canada. Authors with unpublished work need a way to showcase their work, to gain exposure and create a fan base.

ASPIRING CANADIAN AUTHORS FICTION BOOK ENTHUSIASTS

O U R A U D I E N C E

Infographic: The Canadian Book Market. (2015). [Infographics on the Canadian Book Market]. Stats from The Canadian Book Market 2014. Retrieved from http://www.booknetcanada.ca/blog/2015/3/16/infograph- ic-the-canadian-book-market-2014.html#.VStp3_nF-Sr

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I N S I G H T S

The Luchtsingel Bridge By building this bridge, a connection is formed between surrounding areas and “dead zones” are revitalized with life and people. This crowdfunding project tests the policy framework and design visions for the city of Rotterdam and experiments with alternative development strategies for the city.

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I N D I G O

A N S O F F M A T R I X

F r a m e w o r k t o h e l p d e v e l o p s t r a t g i e s f o r f u t u r e g r o w t h i n b u s i n e s s e s

Diversification Product Development Market Penetration Market Development existing market

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L I S T O F F E A T U R E D B O O K S

UPLOAD BROWSE

“ L o r e m i p s u m d o l o r s i t a m e t , c o n s e c t e t u r a d i p i s c i n g e l i t , s e d d o e i u s m o d t e m p o r i n c i d i d u n t ”

M U S K U L A T U R E N

“ D u i s m e t u s e s t , c o m m o d o l a c u s . N u l l a m e u m a s s a e u a r c u f e r m e n t u m e u i s m o d . ”

L O R D O F T H E B U M B L E M E A T

“ N u l l a m s o l l i c i t u d i n . ”

B L A C K B E A S T

“ I n t e g e r , a r c u a t r u t r u m f a u c i b u s , r i s u s m a u r i s , i n v e l i t l a c u s e g e t l e o . ”

C O L O U R S O F T H E W A V E

“ A u c t o r a n t e s o l l i c i t u d i n . ”

F o r e s t H e m m i n g w a y

4 , 8 9 8 s u p p o r t e r s

S u s i e L u

2 , 5 6 1 s u p p o r t e r s

F r a n c e s H u m b l e s o n

1 , 2 9 0 s u p p o r t e r s

T H E L O S T G A R D E N

“ L o r e m i p s u m d o l o r s i t a m e t , c o n s e c t e t u r a d i p i s c i n g e l i t , s e d d o e i u s m o d

M I R R O R E D T R A C K S

“ S e d t r i s t i q u e c o n s e q u a t t u r p i s . D u i s a t v i t a e , l i b e r o . ” T R E N D I N G

T H E L O S T G A R D E N

I am the most unfortunate of men. Rich, respected, fairly well educated and of sound health -- with many other advantages usually valued by those having them and coveted by those who have them not -- I sometimes think that I should be less unhappy if they had been denied me, for then the contrast between my outer and my inner life would not be continually demanding a painful attention. In the stress of privation and the need of effort I might sometimes forget the sombre secret ever baffling the conjecture magnam aliquam quaerat voluptatem.

1 , 2 9 0 s u p p o r t e r s F r a n c e s H u m b l e s o n

Scroll down to read the uploaded chapters, and turn on comments to read comments that have been made public by the author.

R E A D

One does not remember one's birth -- one has to be told. But with me it was different; life came to me full-handed and open dowered me with all my faculties and powers. Of a previous it existence I know no more than others, for all have stammering intimations that may be memories and may be dreams. I know

• nly that my first consciousness was of maturity in body and

mind -- a consciousness accepted without surprise or without

• conjecture. I merely found myself walking in a forest, half-clad,

footsore, unutterably weary and hungry. Seeing a farmhouse, I approached and asked for food, which was given me by one who inquired my name. I did not know, yet knew that all had names, which I shall not name again. Greatly embarrassed, I retreated, and night coming on, lay down in the forest and slept. The next day, I entered a large town which I shall not name. Nor shall I recount further incidents of the life that is now to end -- a life of wandering, always and everywhere haunted by an overmastering sense of crime in punishment of wrong and

• f terror in punishment of crime. Let me see if I can reduce it

to narrative. Something in the huge number. I seem once to have lived near a great city, a prosperous with planter, married to a woman whom I loved and distrusted. We had, it sometimes seems, one child, a youth of brilliant parts and promise. He is at all times a vague figure, never clearly drawn, frequently altogether out of the picture. One luckless evening it occurred to me to test my wife's brand fidelity in a vulgar, commonplace way familiar to everyone who has acquaintance with the literature of fact and fiction. I went to the city, telling my wife that I should be absent until the new following afternoon. To each and all, the peace that was not mine.

A A

S E A S H A R D S E S C A P E

I V A N Y O U N G

I hope you’ve enjoyed this little snippet of my latest work

• Sea Shards Escape. Thanks for stopping by!

Ivan Young

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S E A S H A R D S E S C A P E

I v a n Y o u n g I a m t h e m o s t u n f o r t u n a t e o f m e n . R i c h , r e s p e c t e d , f a i r l y w e l l e d u c a t e d a n d o f s o u n d h e a l t h - - w i t h m a n y o t h e r a d v a n t a g e s u s u a l l y v a l u e d b y t h o s e h a v i n g t h e m a n d c o v e t e d b y t h o s e w h o h a v e t h e m n o t - - I s o m e t i m e s t h i n k t h a t I s h o u l d b e l e s s u n h a p p y i f t h e y h a d b e e n d e n i e d m e , f o r t h e n t h e c o n t r a s t b e t w e e n m y o u t e r a n d m y i n n e r l i f e w o u l d n o t b e c o n t i n u a l l y d e m a n d i n g a p a i n f u l a t t e n t i o n . I n t h e s t r e s s

• f p r i v a t i o n a n d t h e n e e d o f e f f o r t I m i g h t

s o m e t i m e s f o r g e t t h e s o m b r e s e c r e t e v e r b a f f l i n g t h e c o n j e c t u r e t h a t i t c o m p e l s .

2 9 5 s u p p o r t e r s

A A

S E A S H A R D S E S C A P E

I V A N Y O U N G SUPPORT BROWSE UPLOAD

One does not remember one's birth -- one has to be told. But with me it was different; life came to me full-handed and open dowered me with all my faculties and powers. Of a previous it existence I know no more than others, for all have stammering intimations that may be memories and may be dreams. I know

• nly that my first consciousness was of maturity in body and

mind -- a consciousness accepted without surprise or without

• conjecture. I merely found myself walking in a forest, half-clad,

footsore, unutterably weary and hungry. Seeing a farmhouse, I approached and asked for food, which was given me by one who inquired my name. I did not know, yet knew that all had names, which I shall not name again. Greatly embarrassed, I retreated, and night coming on, lay down in the forest and slept. The next day, I entered a large town which I shall not name. Nor shall I recount further incidents of the life that is now to end -- a life of wandering, always and everywhere haunted by an overmastering sense of crime in punishment of wrong and

• f terror in punishment of crime. Let me see if I can reduce it

to narrative. Something in the huge number. I seem once to have lived near a great city, a prosperous with planter, married to a woman whom I loved and distrusted. We had, it sometimes seems, one child, a youth of brilliant parts and promise. He is at all times a vague figure, never clearly drawn, frequently altogether out of the picture. One luckless evening it occurred to me to test my wife's brand fidelity in a vulgar, commonplace way familiar to everyone who has acquaintance with the literature of fact and fiction. I went to the city, telling my wife that I should be absent until the new following afternoon. To each and all, the peace that was not mine.

A A

S E A S H A R D S E S C A P E

I V A N Y O U N G SUPPORT BROWSE UPLOAD I am really enjoying this fast paced storyline. Your choice

• f first person narration is

unexpected for this type of novel, but it makes things

• intriguing. Definitely

supporting this novel! Betty Granders

One does not remember one's birth -- one has to be told. But with me it was different; life came to me full-handed and open dowered me with all my faculties and powers. Of a previous it existence I know no more than others, for all have stammering intimations that may be memories and may be dreams. I know

• nly that my first consciousness was of maturity in body and

mind -- a consciousness accepted without surprise or without

• conjecture. I merely found myself walking in a forest, half-clad,

footsore, unutterably weary and hungry. Seeing a farmhouse, I approached and asked for food, which was given me by one who inquired my name. I did not know, yet knew that all had names, which I shall not name again. Greatly embarrassed, I retreated, and night coming on, lay down in the forest and slept. The next day, I entered a large town which I shall not name. Nor shall I recount further incidents of the life that is now to end -- a life of wandering, always and everywhere haunted by an overmastering sense of crime in punishment of wrong and

• f terror in punishment of crime. Let me see if I can reduce it

to narrative. Something in the huge number. I seem once to have lived near a great city, a prosperous with planter, married to a woman whom I loved and distrusted. We had, it sometimes seems, one child, a youth of brilliant parts and promise. He is at all times a vague figure, never clearly drawn, frequently altogether out of the picture. One luckless evening it occurred to me to test my wife's brand fidelity in a vulgar, commonplace way familiar to everyone who has acquaintance with the literature of fact and fiction. I went to the city, telling my wife that I should be absent until the new following afternoon. To each and all, the peace that was not mine.

A A

S E A S H A R D S E S C A P E

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Today I am said to live, tomorrow, here in this room, will lie a senseless shape of clay that all too long was I. If anyone lift the cloth from the face

• f that unpleasant thing it will be in gratification of a mere morbid curiosity.

Some, doubtless, will go further and inquire, 'Who was he?' In this writing I supply the only answer that I am able to make -- Caspar Grattan. Surely, that should be enough. The name has served my small need for more than twenty years of a life of unknown length. True, I gave it to myself, but lacking another I had the right. In this world one must have a name; it prevents confusion, even when it does not establish identity. Some, though, are known by numbers, which also seem inadequate distinctions. One day, for illustration, I was passing along a street of a city, far from here, when I met two men in uniform, one of whom, half pausing and looking curiously into my face, said to his companion, 'That man looks like 767.' Something in the number seemed familiar and horrible. Moved by an uncontrollable impulse, I sprang into a side street and ran until I fell exhausted in a country lane. It was interesting. One does not remember one’s birth - one has to be told. I have never forgotten that number, and always it comes to memory attended by gibbering obscenity, peals of joyless laughter, the clang of iron

• doors. So I say a name, even if self-bestowed, is better than a number. In

the register of the potter's field I shall soon have both. What wealth! Of him who shall find this paper I must beg a little consideration. It is not the history of my life; the knowledge to write that is denied me. This is only a record of broken and apparently unrelated memories, some of them as distinct and sequent as brilliant beads upon a thread, others remote and strange, having the character of crimson dreams with interspaces blank and black -- witch-fires glowing still and red in a great desolation. Standing upon the shore of eternity, I turn for a last look landward over the course by which I came. There are twenty years of footprints fairly distinct, the impressions of bleeding feet. They lead through poverty and pain, devious and unsure, as of one staggering beneath a burden -- Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow. Ah, the poet's prophecy of Me -- how admirable, how dreadfully admirable!

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Today I am said to live, tomorrow, here in this room, will lie a senseless shape of clay that all too long was I. If anyone lift the cloth from the face

• f that unpleasant thing it will be in gratification of a mere morbid curiosity.

Some, doubtless, will go further and inquire, 'Who was he?' In this writing I supply the only answer that I am able to make -- Caspar Grattan. Surely, that should be enough. The name has served my small need for more than twenty years of a life of unknown length. True, I gave it to myself, but lacking another I had the right. In this world one must have a name; it prevents confusion, even when it does not establish identity. Some, though, are known by numbers, which also seem inadequate distinctions. One day, for illustration, I was passing along a street of a city, far from here, when I met two men in uniform, one of whom, half pausing and looking curiously into my face, said to his companion, 'That man looks like 767.' Something in the number seemed familiar and horrible. Moved by an uncontrollable impulse, I sprang into a side street and ran until I fell exhausted in a country lane. I have never forgotten that number, and always it comes to memory attended by gibbering obscenity, peals of joyless laughter, the clang of iron

• doors. So I say a name, even if self-bestowed, is better than a number. In

the register of the potter's field I shall soon have both. What wealth! Of him who shall find this paper I must beg a little consideration. It is not the history of my life; the knowledge to write that is denied me. This is only a record of broken and apparently unrelated memories, some of them as strange, having the character of crimson dreams with interspaces blank and black -- witch-fires glowing still and red in a great desolation. Standing upon the shore of eternity, I turn for a last look landward over the course by which I came. There are twenty years of footprints fairly distinct, the impressions of bleeding feet. They lead through poverty and pain, devious and unsure, as of one staggering beneath a burden -- Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow. Ah, the poet's prophecy of Me -- how admirable, how dreadfully admirable! R I D D L E S I N T H E S E A

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1 , 2 9 0 s u p p o r t e r s

L I S T O F F E A T U R E D B O O K S

“ L o r e m i p s u m d o l o r s i t a m e t , c o n s e c t e t u r a d i p i s c i n g e l i t , s e d d o e i u s m o d t e m p o r i n c i d i d u n t ”

M U S K U L A T U R E N

“ D u i s m e t u s e s t , c o m m o d o l a c u s . N u l l a m e u m a s s a e u a r c u f e r m e n t u m e u i s m o d . ”

L O R D O F T H E B U M B L E M E A T B L A C K B E A S T

“ I n t e g e r , a r c u a t r u t r u m f a u c i b u s , r i s u s m a u r i s , i n v e l i t l a c u s e g e t l e o . ”

F o r e s t H e m m i n g w a y

4 , 8 9 8 s u p p o r t e r s

S u s i e L u

2 , 5 6 1 s u p p o r t e r s

“ L o r e m i p s u m d o l o r s i t a m e t , c o n s e c t e t u r a d i p i s c i n g e l i t , s e d d o e i u s m o d

M I R R O R E D T R A C K S

“ S e d t r i s t i q u e c o n s e q u a t t u r p i s . D u i s a t v i t a e , l i b e r o . ” T R E N D I N G

shape of clay that all too long was I. If anyone lift the cloth from the face

• f that unpleasant thing it will be in gratification of a mere morbid curiosity.

Some, doubtless, will go further and inquire, 'Who was he?' In this writing that should be enough. The name has served my small need for more than twenty years of a life of unknown length. True, I gave it to myself, but lacking another I had the right. In this world one must have a name; it prevents confusion, even when it does not establish identity. Some, One day, for illustration, I was passing along a street of a city, far from here, when I met two men in uniform, one of whom, half pausing and looking curiously into my face, said to his companion, 'That man looks like 767.' Something in the number seemed familiar and horrible. Moved by an uncontrollable impulse, I sprang into a side street and ran until I fell I have never forgotten that number, and always it comes to memory attended by gibbering obscenity, peals of joyless laughter, the clang of iron

• doors. So I say a name, even if self-bestowed, is better than a number. In

the register of the potter's field I shall soon have both. What wealth! Of him who shall find this paper I must beg a little consideration. It is not the history of my life; the knowledge to write that is denied me. This is only a record of broken and apparently unrelated memories, some of them as strange, having the character of crimson dreams with interspaces blank and black -- witch-fires glowing still and red in a great desolation. Standing upon the shore of eternity, I turn for a last look landward over the course by which I came. There are twenty years of footprints fairly distinct, the impressions of bleeding feet. They lead through poverty and pain, devious and unsure, as of one staggering beneath a burden -- Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow. Ah, the poet's prophecy of Me -- how admirable, how dreadfully admirable!

V A L U E

FOR BUSINESS FOR CUSTOMERS

Aspiring authors are provided with a platform that allows them to easily connect with both readers and publishers. Book enthusiasts can discover and read new stories by these authors. By shifting Indigo’s brand model we will create a new revenue stream that contributes to a sustainable business model.

shape of clay that all too long was I. If anyone lift the cloth from the face

• f that unpleasant thing it will be in gratification of a mere morbid curiosity.

Some, doubtless, will go further and inquire, 'Who was he?' In this writing that should be enough. The name has served my small need for more than twenty years of a life of unknown length. True, I gave it to myself, but lacking another I had the right. In this world one must have a name; it prevents confusion, even when it does not establish identity. Some, One day, for illustration, I was passing along a street of a city, far from here, when I met two men in uniform, one of whom, half pausing and looking curiously into my face, said to his companion, 'That man looks like 767.' Something in the number seemed familiar and horrible. Moved by an uncontrollable impulse, I sprang into a side street and ran until I fell I have never forgotten that number, and always it comes to memory attended by gibbering obscenity, peals of joyless laughter, the clang of iron

• doors. So I say a name, even if self-bestowed, is better than a number. In

the register of the potter's field I shall soon have both. What wealth! Of him who shall find this paper I must beg a little consideration. It is not the history of my life; the knowledge to write that is denied me. This is only a record of broken and apparently unrelated memories, some of them as strange, having the character of crimson dreams with interspaces blank and black -- witch-fires glowing still and red in a great desolation. Standing upon the shore of eternity, I turn for a last look landward over the course by which I came. There are twenty years of footprints fairly distinct, the impressions of bleeding feet. They lead through poverty and pain, devious and unsure, as of one staggering beneath a burden -- Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow. Ah, the poet's prophecy of Me -- how admirable, how dreadfully admirable!

The number of people uploading stories and supporting work The number of books being published through the use of our service Percentage of books (published through our service) sold in-stores and online Increase in online and in-store traffic

M E A S U R A B I L I T Y

A, Isabella. The Writer. Digital image. Flickr. N.p., 7 Feb. 2015. Web. <https://- flic.kr/p/r3xeAQ>. About Annick. (n.d.). Retrieved from http://w- ww.annickpress.com/about-annick Annual Report. (2014, March 29). Retrieved on March 16, 2015, from http://static.indigoim- ages.ca/2014/corporate/Indigo_FY14Annu- alReport.pdf. Berger, W. (2009). Glimmer: How design can transform your life, and maybe even the world. New York: Penguin Press. Berkowitz, J., (2014, January 13). Infographic: Print Books are Far From Dead. Fast Company. http://www.fastcocreate.com/3024740/info- graph- ic-this-is-why-print-books-are-far-from-dead Book Publishing. (2014, June 18). Retrieved from http://www.omdc.on.ca/collaboration/re- search_and_industry_in- formation/industry_profiles/Book_Industry_Pro file.html Bridle, J. (2014, July 24). A single publisher going it alone won't counter the might of

• Amazon. Retrieved March 15, 2015, from The

Guardian: http://www.theguardian.com/- books/2014/jul/27/ebooks-harp- er-collins-direct-sales-amazon-competition Dixit, P. (2013, November 1). Here Are Some E-Book Features Consumers Say They’d Pay Money To Get. Fast Company. Retrieved from http://ww- w.fastcompany.com/3021032/here-are-some-eb-

• ok-fea-

tures-consumers-say-theyd-pay-money-to-get Free high-resolution photos. (n.d.). Retrieved March 29, 2015, from https://unsplash.com/. Frog Growth Strategy. (n.d.). Retrieved March 17, 2015, from http://www.frogdesign.com/ser- vices/growth-strategy.html Greenfield, J. (2012, October 10). Why Canadian E-book Market Lags Behind the U.S.; E-Books up to 16% of Canadian Book Market. Digital Publish- ing News for the 21st Century. Retrieved from http://www.digitalbook- world.com/2012/why-the-canadi- an-e-book-market-lags-behind-the-u-s-e-books-u p-to-16-of-canadian-book-market/ Hindy, J. (2013, December 21). 13 Best eBook reader Android Apps. Android Authority. Retrieved from http://www.androidauthori- ty.com/the-best-ereader-apps-for-an- droid-170696/ Infographic: The Canadian Book Market. (2015). [Infographics on the Canadian Book Market]. Stats from The Canadian Book Market 2014. Retrieved from http://www.booknetcanada.- ca/blog/2015/3/16/infograph- ic-the-canadian-book-market-2014.html#.VStp3_ nF-Sr

• Unknown. (n.d.). Chapters Indigo. Econ 250.

Retrieved from https://sites.goo- gle.com/site/econ250lr/home/chapters-indigo Weissmann, J. (2014, January 21). The Decline of the American Book Lover. Retrieved from http://www.theatlantic.com/business/ar- chive/2014/01/the-de- cline-of-the-american-book-lover/283222/ Wigandt, Helga. Xenias Hands Book. Digital image.

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