I emailed all the authors. In most cases, the authors had moved on and had self published – a good choice. Others were still interested in having us read over the query.

For some of those that were left, I could tell that the book was simply not for us – for many reasons. In the case of one book, I knew we weren’t going to take it on just from the query. I read over the first part of the book to give it a fair shot and then sent a very polite and probably too-nice rejection back to the author.

What I got in return was a very poorly crafted email lambasting me for unfair practices, accusing me of not reading the book, calling me something I try very hard not to be and being generally mad at me for making a judgement call which in the author’s opinion was not correct. It was full of grammatical errors – obviously written in anger. It was actually the first time that I’ve received that kind of note back from a rejection – all the others before have been quite professional.

Oh boy. I sure wish that author had written that note and then decided to wait 30 minutes before hitting the send button. I think they would have decided against sending it. All they accomplished was to vent their anger to someone who doesn’t care (or matter to them), making themselves look unprofessional, sloppy and immature. And it made me think about the next time I send a rejection letter. I’ll just say no and that’s it. Why bother with niceties like “I wish you all the best in your writing career…”?

Listen, I know rejection is hard. No, I’m not a writer. But I get rejected all the time. Bookstores won’t carry a book. The terms I get offered aren’t as good as those for the Big Six. A distributor doesn’t answer. Reviewers hate a book. Could you imagine me sending a note back to one of them telling them the things this author said to me? Rejection happens to all of us. But business is about shaking it off and making the decision to keep going. And to keep our anger and hurt out of professional communication. Heck, go to the bathroom and cry or smash a pillow against the wall. But an angry note written in haste won’t do a thing to help one’s cause.

The blogosphere is replete with stories of authors gone crazy. I guess I can consider myself inducted into this world now. By writing this, I’m not trying to call out anyone. I sincerely hope that this post reminds all of us (author, publisher, or otherwise) to conduct ourselves with grace and professionalism – even in the face of rejection.

Lily is a tragic and lonely vampire, unwittingly brought into her existence by Ian, a selfish but beautiful maker who has captured her heart for decades, even though he left her with no compass on how to navigate her strange new world. When she meets a coven of vampires that takes her in and treats her like family, all she thought she knew is brought into question. Things are further complicated when she finally finds love – Christian, a human man. Just when she’s finally found happiness, Ian reappears, threatening to destroy everything Lily holds dear. When he once again removes all her choices, Lily is thrown into a world where Ian’s ongoing sins are unstoppable and her family and newfound love seem lost forever.

LM DeWalt is a Peruvian American who has been living in the US for 30 years. She works as a teacher of ESL, Spanish, French, and accent reduction and is also an interpreter and translator and runs creative writing groups. She is currently attending teacher’s college. She has written for several Spanish language newspapers but her dream was always to write novels. Her love of vampires started when she was seven years old and saw Bella Lugosi’s Dracula.

Now the latest argument is that ebooks erode our values – as touted by the talented Jonathan Franzen. He – along with others – state that the lack of permanence of ebooks represents societal demise, where nothing we own can be trusted. True, much of what we used to consider our own is now ‘licensed’ – music, movies, now books. Many lament that their art doesn’t sit upon the wall or a shelf, ready to be gazed upon and pulled out to view when we want to – like 50 years from now.

My problem with this permanence sentiment is that it is a very narrow, mostly western view of recent history only. For the majority of history, most of our art and stories have never had permanence. It has been played out and told as stories passed down by generations in the form of words and hand gestures, both of which lack the ‘permanence’ that printed matter has. I’m not saying that art shouldn’t have permanence, without it we wouldn’t know about Shakespeare’s talents or Dante’s story. But this view that the sky is falling because we have ebooks is a narrow one and one that lacks the full vision of what ebooks are doing for many people.

First and foremost, ebooks have opened up the door for many authors to publish their books. Sure some of them aren’t so good, but many are, and it’s a wonderful thing that they are getting read, even if by just a few people. Almost equally important is what technology has enabled for readers. No longer are books relegated to those who can afford them, but can be shared among friends for almost next to nothing. Case in point is a $24.95 print book which can be shared by many for $4.99. In a world where we are titillated by apps, movies, television, isn’t it nice that we might be reading more – regardless of what we’re reading it on?

When I first got started in this business, I had a lot of preset notions to overcome and a lot of ignorance on what ebooks were. I was kind of hoping we were past all that? I guess not. But the latest argument in the anti-ebook debate about the lack of permanence of our societal e-stories is just wrong. The stories told by countless generations of first nations peoples and tribal cultures around the world are not any less relevant and meaningful than the stories we write on paper. According to those mentioned above, these stories are less valuable than our paper ones because the words might change from generation to generation.

I don’t know what your answers are, but I believe that we can’t really own anything, permanence doesn’t exist and the desire to keep things such is a fruitless venture. Live in the now, that’s all we have. The words we read in this now, no matter what they’re printed on remain imprinted in our memories and on our hearts. That’s what important. That we had the experience of those stories. And thanks to ebooks, we have more of those experiences and those stories.

When this business first started, it was under a much different business model than what we have now. We were essentially a supported DIY outfit, where we’d help distribute whatever a writer had out to readers – hence the name ireadiwrite. Since we’ve evolved into a more traditional publishing house, I’ve been wanting to change the name for some time, but haven’t pulled the trigger. The start of a new year seems as good a time as any, so here it is – Central Avenue Publishing, or Central Avenue for short. We hope you like it.

There are currently two books officially published under Central Avenue and all new books will fall under that imprint. Books currently published under the ireadiwrite imprint will remain so.

With this change, we’re pleased to release our new Winter 2012 catalogue. You can download it here.

Other than the new imprint name, it’s business as usual. If you have any questions, please don’t hesitate to ask.

We’re proud to post two of Mr. Sen’s poems which recently appeared in an international Poetry Magazine. We’re proud to be the publisher of his book and to offer these beautiful poems to you.

The first set of thanks goes to the tremendous, wonderful authors with whom I am terribly privileged to work. They provide undying sources of friendship, support, frustration, and a huge amount of talent. Each one of them holds a special place in my heart, from the first author, who wrote the very first book released by us, to the most recent – who provides a source of inspiration to many around the world. The ones in between are each special in their own way, with each one of their books marking a special event for me. I hope they all know how special they are. I also credit the authors who stayed for a while and then went their own way. I wish them nothing but success in their careers. The ones who’ve stayed have seen the downs and now fortunately – the many ups. We are a family, we have disagreements, we have moments of being in each other’s heads. We have grown together and we’re now reaping the benefits. Thank you – you’ve all inspired me, made me jealous of you and made me admire the tremendous talent you each have.

My next shout out goes to the many editors, beta readers, proofreaders, reviewers, booksellers, bloggers, technical advisers and designers who I’ve had the pleasure of working with. Some have come and gone and others have stayed longer. Some I’ve only met online and others are as close as family. You have contributed in a real sense to the growth of this company and made our books better than ever. Thank you.

But my biggest thank you goes to the many, many thousands of readers who have bought and read our books. Some are friends and family of the authors, but the vast majority are strangers who’ve come across a book by an unknown author, a small press and have taken a chance on them. They’ve spread the word via social media sites and reviews. They’ve been kind and critical, honest and sometimes overwhelmingly supportive. But they are all valuable – and have brought so much to the table. They are what keeps me going – what keeps all of us going. Thank you for your wonderful support. It means more than you know.

So, Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Happy Kwanzaa and a Joyful Holiday season to all who celebrate at this time of year. May we all enjoy ourselves, remember those lost to us and be thankful for what we have.

Know that it was – truly – written for you.

I reach up and caress his hair.  I spread my fingers, running them through his soft waves.  He’s let it grow long again.  I never thought I would like a guy’s hair longer than mine.  That was before I ever felt it tickle across my form.  The first time Sloane drifted over my naked body letting his hair skim over me, I knew I never wanted him to cut it short.  I can almost feel the golden strands brushing over me, leaving a trail of tingles in its wake. His arm tightens around me as I shiver a little imagining it sweeping across my breasts and over my stomach, falling into disarray when he looks back up into my eyes.

His eyes.  There are no words for how beautifully expressive his eyes are, or how they elicit so many emotions within me.  They can calm me when I’m on the edge, slow me when I’m going too fast and fill me when I’m empty.  His eyes give me hope, trust and love.  His eyes melt me to my core.

His eyes have stripped me bare and peered into my soul.  They have seen the real me.  The me that I sometimes refuse to acknowledge.  The me that can be pushy, manipulative and at times shallow.  A part of me that I try very hard to keep in check, yet occasionally slips out.  He has seen all of this and still he wants me for his own.

Sloane is a man of few words.  His quiet presence is at odds with all that his eyes say to me.  He speaks volumes with a glance.  I can see the pride that shimmers in the emerald depths, making me feel like the most important thing on earth. They reassure me that I am not alone in this world, that he will never leave me.  If I ever have a second of doubt, all it takes is just a fleeting glance into them and I know that he will always be there.

I run the tip of my finger across his brow and ghost over his closed eye, finishing the path below as if I were wiping away a tear.  I brush across his cheek and feel the dip of his dimple. I smile too, knowing that he’s happy.

That dimple is my own personal happy place.  It was there in the first smile he gave me.  Now it’s my favorite way to be told good morning.  It’s the first thing I see after we’ve been apart.  It flashes at me, teasing me when he catches me fawning over the new dress or eying a great pair of shoes.  It reminds me that I can make him happy simply by being happy myself.  I know I’ve won our playful arguments when at last, that dimple appears and with it the reminder that all is right in life.

When that dimple comes out to play alongside his wicked grin, my first instinct is to stretch up and sample it.  It awakens my heart, followed by an ache between my legs.  It can turn my nipples as hard as ice and my panties damp in less time than it takes to pull him to me for a little taste.  The things that lethal combination of grin and dimple do to me… Le sigh.

He is a man of many faces. He can smile without the slightest hint of the dimple appearing.  Those are the smiles most often seen by everyone else.  It’s the smug look he gets when he’s won a game or an argument.  The smirk he gets when he’s made a witty crack.  The smile he gives to reassure those around him that all is well. Sometimes the smile is a slightly sad one that tells me he’s thinking of his family back home.  That smile rips at my heart.  It’s bittersweet because I know he misses them, yet he has chosen to stay here with me.

But the dimple—that is reserved just for me.

I run the pad of my thumb across his full bottom lip. His lips are parted just a bit and I feel the humidity of his breath against my fingers. His lips are magical. I knew the first time I saw him that I would be kissing those lips.  His luscious bottom lip was made to be sucked on.

Those lips have done wonders far beyond kissing me senseless. They have whispered words of encouragement, words of compassion, words of truth, and words of love.  Sometimes they whisper the most deliciously dirty little things that cause tingles from the spikes of my hair to the polish on my toes. But pressed to mine… well, it is an unbelievable feeling when you’ve been well and thoroughly kissed.  It leaves me fully satisfied yet desperately wanting more.

Concealed behind those lips is his secret weapon.  The things his tongue alone can do to me can be absolutely mind blowing. At times it can be gentle, dancing with mine, the slow, soulful melody playing within us.  At other times it can be demanding, calling mine out to join his.  When he takes his tongue on a tour of my body… even nirvana isn’t a comparison.

The mere thought of his tongue against me momentarily steals my breath.  I inhale deeply, drawing in his scent.  There is no better aroma in the world than the one in the air right now.  It is the sweet musky essence of Sloane, along with a hint of me lingering on him. The air is festive, rich with pine from the Christmas tree and traces of the sugar cookies I had made for Santa earlier. This, mingled with the scent of the cedar-smoke from the fireplace, is a combination that is truly sublime. They say smell is often tied most closely to memories. This bouquet of tantalizing fragrances will always allow me to recall this moment, these emotions, for the rest of my life.

As I drag my fingertips slowly over his chin I feel the roughness of the five o’clock shadow. He’ll shave again in the morning but for now I enjoy the scruff as he nuzzles against my palm.   I rest my hand against the side of his throat briefly feeling his pulse.  His heart beat is still slowing from our lovemaking earlier. I snuggle my body a little tighter to his. The arm Sloane has around my back contracts, the weight of it pulling me firmly against him.  That small gesture tells me right now, we are of one mind.

Moments like this are truly amazing.  Everything there is to say between us is being told through our hearts rather than our words.  Surely there aren’t words remotely descriptive enough to convey our conviction or sentiments towards each other.  Love doesn’t begin to describe the feelings this man creates in me. Life giving, world altering, heart stopping and perfect do not even come close to summing it up.  He is my life, my world, my… everything, and at times like this, I know that I am his.

I teasingly slide my hand from his neck further down his body, and rest my palm against his chest.  The subtle rise and fall with each breath is a hypnotic rhythm.  Not wanting to fall asleep yet, I run my hand back up to his right shoulder.  I trace the cut of his deltoid muscles and follow the line to his bicep.  He is relaxed tonight.  Our bodies are so in-tune that often his mood is a reflection of mine.

I feel more than hear Sloane give a content sigh beneath me. I’m overcome with the serenity of the moment.  It’s a wonder to me just how Sloane can be so calm about what’s coming.  Oh, no one has told me, but I know it’s coming.  I’ve had a feeling for some time now that tomorrow will be the day Sloane officially asks me to be his.  Sloane’s halcyon mood is a testament to how sure he is of our future together.  Our future together.  I sigh as well.

I trail my fingers down to his hand.  I pay homage to each finger, gently outlining each one, pausing at the knuckles to trace a spiral before moving to the next.  These hands are very precious to me.  They cup my cheeks when Sloane gently kisses me goodbye for the day.  They always linger behind just a bit after his lips have moved and he starts to step back.  He slowly drags them away as if he’s leaving behind a little bit of himself and replacing it with the memory of me.  They rub slow comforting circles on my back when I’m upset.  They have clapped at my successes and helped me fix my mistakes.  His hands have worshiped my body making me feel as if I were a work of art created by one of the great masters.

As if he knows what I’m thinking he lifts his hand and briefly holds mine before clasping them both over to rest on my left hip.  He softly squeezes me reassuring me that he will always be there for me.

I shift my leg down to rest my hand against the little hollow just below his hip bone.  This is the spot that my hand ultimately seeks out at night.  Right now it’s bare to me and I lightly trace a small design there.   Most nights as I’m drifting off to sleep I slip my hand under the band of his boxers just to feel the warm comfort of him.  I marvel at the smoothness of his skin.  There really is nothing to compare it to, not silk nor satin, it just is what it is, and I love it. Whenever I’m lost all I need to do is reach out and touch that place and I know that I am home.

Sloane shifts slightly under me and I feel his lips brush the top of my head.  I roll my head back onto his shoulder to look at him.  I’m greeted by his dimple.  He leans forward again and places a gentle, lingering kiss on my lips. I close my eyes and sigh.  Sloane sits up, lifting me with him, never separating our bodies. This movement is gentle but still enough to bring me from my reverie. He is staring at me intently, our eyes locked as I shift my body to wrap my legs around him, straddling him. He caresses my face between his hands, softly kissing me yet again. His lips slightly parted massaging mine with his own.  I move to deepen the kiss but he pulls back. I frown as one of his hands slides away from my cheek.  I’m not ready to leave this blissful moment.

Sloane doesn’t attempt to move me.  I can feel him fumbling for something on the floor next to us, near our clothes.  I’m not sure what he’s looking for.  Everything he needs is right in his lap.  Once his hand stops he kisses me again; there is a quiver to his lips telling me he’s nervous about something.  I feel his heart beat pick up.  The hand that is still on my cheek glides down my left arm to my hand.  He gently strokes my fingers before lifting my hand to his mouth.  The whole time his eyes are on me.  His eyes are twinkling with the reflection of the Christmas lights in them I can see the love shimmering with just a hint of a question.  The raw emotion on his face causes my chest to ache and a lump to form in my throat.  I am so overwhelmed with love that I can’t imagine anything could make me love him more.

He places the tiniest kiss on the back of my hand and brings his other up to it.  I feel something cool and smooth slide down over my ring finger.  I smile knowing what it is.  I don’t have to look.  I can’t stop the tears as they fill my eyes, spilling over onto my cheeks, like the love that is pouring out of me right now.  Sloane brushes away a tear.  He smiles, dimple and all, knowing these are happy tears.  He closes his mouth over mine and this time the kiss is all consuming.  No words need to be spoken, his body has asked and mine has answered.

NM Facile is the author of ACROSS THE HALL – one of our bestselling romance novels.

Suzi Davis is a British-born Canadian writer and artist and has been writing stories and poetry for as long as she can remember. Her current focus is on writing young adult novels whose genre allows her to explore the relationships between families, friends and young lovers. Interested in the paranormal, there is always an added element of magical fantasy to whatever tale she spins. Suzi lives on British Columbia’s Vancouver Island with her husband and young sons.

PRESBYTERIAN: BEST IN PRAYER

ASTRONOMER: MOON STARER

DESPERATION: A ROPE ENDS IT

THE EYES: THEY SEE

GEORGE BUSH: HE BUGS GORE

THE MORSE CODE: HERE COME DOTS

DORMITORY: DIRTY ROOM

SLOT MACHINES: CASH LOST IN ME

ANIMOSITY: IS NO AMITY

ELECTION RESULTS: LIES – LET’S RECOUNT

SNOOZE ALARMS: ALAS! NO MORE Z ‘S

A DECIMAL POINT: I’M  A DOT IN PLACE

THE EARTHQUAKES: THAT QUEER SHAKE

ELEVEN PLUS TWO: TWELVE PLUS ONE

MOTHER-IN-LAW: WOMAN HITLER