If App Developers made Books

After spending millions of dollars training a generation NOT to pay for content, the app industry has discovered that it really needs to understand (and adapt to) its audience if it wants to get any more money from them. In less than six years, a global media sector has been turned on its head – pivoting from Paid to Free, in one irreversible step.

The new business models rely on in-app-purchases (IAP) and adverts for their revenue, but this means they need a much deeper, much longer engagement with their audience if they want to break even. There are many innovative methods employed to achieve this… but what if these approaches were applied to other digital media? What if app developers made ebooks?

Advertising

It might start simply – a banner ad across the bottom of your Kindle screen, plus a few seconds of streaming video ads, every other chapter. At first, these ads would be fairly generic, but after a while you'd start to notice things. You're enjoying an Inspector Morse novel and the banner ads just happen to include one for London Pride beer and another for a new recording of Wagner's Ring Cycle. You might also find that ads were being delayed, so they'd be less obvious. After all, if you read The Silence Of The Lambs, it's reasonable to expect a few ads for L`Air du Temps… but not today.

From midway through any novel, eerily accurate recommendations for other books would start popping up. Reading on, the ad frequency would steadily increase as you approached the pivotal chapters, culminating in a blizzard of banners and a timely [Pay to Remove Ads] button.

In-Book Purchases (IBP)

Removing Ads has always been a popular in-app purchase and its applicability to all kinds of content ensures its inclusion here. But what else might readers pay for?

Paywalls certainly aren't new – and you could argue that Amazon's "Try a sample" button is effectively just that: giving a few pages for free followed by the option to purchase the rest. But imagine if the book's publisher could set multiple paywalls, wherever they wanted in the text. Rather than appearing after an arbitrary number of pages, the paywalls would be exquisitely placed at twists and cliff-hangers, creating the strongest possible emotional need in the audience before asking them for their money.

If the above seems a bit… well, manipulative, then how about a Pay Per Chapter (PPC) model instead? Readers would be able to audition new books and, effectively, pay an amount commensurate with their enjoyment. If they finish the book, they pay full price; if they can't get into the story, they pay a tiny fraction.

Of course, this approach relies on the book chiming with as many readers as possible. Are there perhaps ways to broaden a book's appeal?

Adaptive Content

Again, it could begin with something simple. You might think it's just a coincidence that it's raining outside while you read the opening chapter with the hero trudging through a sudden downpour… but is it? Context sensitive narrative might easily cross-reference the Kindle's location with weather services, modifying the displayed text to build resonance between the reader and the protagonist. But that's not the only thing that could adapt.

If a book contained multiple versions of the text, then subtle cues (quietly mined from social data) could shift the protagonist's age, gender, religion or ethnicity, to be more compatible with that of the reader.

Authors and editors could watch the behaviour of early readers – identifying where people seemed to lose interest and stop reading. The problem chapters could be tweaked or replaced, with updated versions of the book downloaded automatically. But why stop there?

Using a process called A/B Testing, it's possible to split an audience and measure how each segment responds to something. So at any given time, 10% of readers reading the same book might be presented with a slightly different plot – and whichever version showed the highest completion ratio, or received the best reviews, would become the new "standard edition" of the book.

Social Reach

Last but not least, it's worth considering how a book's social reach might be extended through digital techniques. There was a time when audiences went looking for content but now, increasingly, content has to go looking for an audience. We're seeing more and more innovative methods of publicising titles and it's not hard to predict a time when the amount you pay for a book could be reduced by the number of friends you tell about it. After all, everyone knows the importance of studying the algorithms that drive the digital stores and recommendation pages. But app developers also know that people are busy, that people are forgetful. So perhaps ebooks will start reaching out to readers if they've been gone for a while – a friendly nudge via push-notifications or social media, complete with a one-page reminder of the story so far. Re-engaging the audience is so important… especially if there's a Pay Per Chapter model on the horizon.

Thankfully, the fact that you can do something doesn't always mean that you should do it. True, the above ideas are all based on real techniques from the apps business, but there's no reason to assume that this is the future for ebooks. Although, now that I think about it, the Pay Per Chapter approach might just work, especially for a series crime author like myself. Perhaps even digital clouds have silver linings.

Too Soon?

I'm always very keen to do book events. It's great to have the opportunity to talk to people about a story, to find out which characters and situations resonated with them, and why...

...but tonight I may have been a little too keen.

The venue was Flitwick Library near Bedford - a two hour drive from where I work. Traffic was pretty hectic, but I got there in good time and parked up. After a quick, pre-talk cigarette, I made my way into the building. The place was quiet, but I could see a good number of people already in the lecture hall, and one man sitting at a desk. He came over and asked if he could help me.
"Hi," I greeted him. "I'm Fergus McNeill, and I'm here for the author talk."
"Author talk?" he said.
I nodded at him.
"Tonight is Weight Watchers," he explained, glancing towards the lecture hall.

I began to think I'd come to the wrong place, but then I was briefly encouraged when I spotted a small poster behind him, with a photo of me, and details of the author event - 7pm on the 11th.

"That's me." I pointed at the poster.
He turned, looked at the poster, then turned back to me.
"That's not 'til 11th of July," he said.

Everything snapped together in my mind very quickly. Had I not checked the date several times in the last few weeks? Of course I had. I'd checked it on my Amazon author page... unless...

I quickly looked through my emails. Sure enough, the event was down as July, not June. I'd obviously set the wrong month when posting the event on Amazon.

Understandably deflated, I turned to leave. To his credit, the man didn't laugh. But his parting line was sheer deadpan gold.

"See you again next month."

The Circumnavigation of the Modern Super Market

It is a curious thing, but this whole business reminded me of that lively evening back in Africa when I had to tiptoe across a sandbar littered with crocodiles. Big fellows they were, too. Of course, I did not have my revolver with me that time, and in any event this was only a visit to the premises of J. Sainsbury esq, albeit my first.

Naturally, you will be wondering what possessed a gentleman to patronize such an impersonal and unsuitable establishment but I can assure you that I was compelled to do so by a bizarre series of events that concluded with my entire domestic staff rendered unconscious. Before my man Hodges fainted dead away, he confessed in a faltering voice that we no longer kept an account with the village grocer and that the only hope of securing provisions lay in what he referred to as a “super market”.

Under normal circumstances, I would have never have entertained the idea of “shopping” – ghastly word – certainly not with so many perfectly edible animals roaming the estate. However, I remembered that the Wilberforce-Smythes intended to call that same evening and fancied that little Jenny might turn her nose up at Shetland pony sandwiches.

Clearly, there was nothing for it but to mount an expedition. Immediately, I was faced with my first problem – what was appropriate attire for such an excursion? I consulted “Haverstock’s Compendium of Sartorial Elegance for All Occasions” but drew a blank. The closest approximation was “Correct attire for touring unfamiliar areas of the Continent” but, as it turned out, the recommended tweeds and walking boots proved quite suitable for the job.

I elected to take the larger Jaguar, which started at the first attempt, and roared down through the village. My next challenge was to establish the whereabouts of Mr. Sainsbury’s place of business, but my luck was in as I fortuitously knocked Jones the postman off his bike while negotiating one of the blind corners on the Underminster Road. After assuring the poor fellow that he had not damaged my motor car, I quizzed him for directions to the “super market” Hodges had alluded to. Gamely struggling to his feet, Jones indicated the most direct route and, once we had staunched his bleeding, I bade him farewell and was away once more.

At first, I thought I must be mistaken. As a gentleman, one is unprepared for the immense nature of these so-called “retail parks”. Fearing that Jones’ directions were confused by his injuries, I was on the point of driving away when I noticed the fellow Sainsbury’s name, written large and rather tactlessly, across the front of a soul-less grey building. Judging by the size of the place, this chap had obviously done well for himself, but the plethora of gaudy orange signs were in extremely poor taste, the tell-tale mark of first generation money.

Driving past the tiresome ranks of modern vehicles, I swept into a large, convenient area outside the main doors and parked without incident. Noticing many people of indeterminate class milling around, I thought it wiser to remove the keys from the ignition and even took the precaution of instructing a loitering market worker to keep undesirables away from the Jaguar.

Passing within, I thought I had strayed into the warehouse and spent several minutes searching for the shopkeeper’s counter before I realized that the whole place seemed to operate on some wretched self-service basis. Finding this intolerable, I resolved not to lower myself to the level of the other miserable patrons. Quickly locating the nearest member of staff, a discourteous youth sporting an unsightly clip-on tie and third-degree acne, I asserted my authority and instructed him to appropriate the items I desired. Seemingly baffled by my orders, it took him several moments to get the gist, but a couple of swift whacks from my walking stick finally stirred him into action.

At this point I must confess that my inquisitive nature got the better of me and I followed my reluctant aide into the garish aisles.

Never have I seen so much luridly coloured cardboard in one place. Utilitarian shelves arranged without the slightest respect for the values of taste and style, piled high with gaudy packages… vulgar signs shrieking their gibberish with no thought for punctuation or grammar, and everywhere stained by the unholy glow of fluorescent tube lighting. My assistant seemed untroubled by this riot of bad taste, but I saw that he was a simple soul, clearly content to push his little wheeled basket around the labyrinth that was his workplace.

I instructed the poor devil to seek me out when his task was completed and, taking an apple from a huge pile, set out on my own to explore.

I had been walking for some time when I finally came upon something that I recognized. There before me, stood a fishmonger’s counter. I made my way to the front and cleared my throat to get the apron-clad youth’s attention. Sadly, the unfortunate fellow had some sort of hearing problem and I had to rap him on the shoulder several times with my stick before he turned to me. At this point, quite inexplicably, several nearby hoi-polloi started speaking in their charming regional accents, waving small scraps of paper that appeared to be raffle tickets. I was quite patient with them but eventually had to shoo them away with a large trout as this was, after all, a fish counter and not a tom bola.

Using my stick to instruct the deaf lad, I indicated that I wished to sample some of his smoked salmon. He went through some unnecessary rigmarole involving a bag and a label before handing it to me but, after trying a few mouthfuls I concluded that it wasn’t up to much and handed it back to him. The poor fellow was obviously quite shaken to discover that his wares were below par as he started babbling about something or other, but I sympathetically told him to buck up and we’d say no more about it.

By now, I had grown weary of the not-so-super market experience and elected to wait in my motor car where, I was sure, my youth and his basket of provisions would have the sense to seek me out. Retracing my steps, I picked up a newspaper and another apple and made my way through the doors towards my vehicle.

At this point, my story took a turn that I still do not fully understand. A youth in a dark jumper and an ill-fitting peaked cap accosted me, droning on about unpaid goods or some such nonsense – his mastery of the Queen’s English was tenuous to say the least – and invited me to accompany him “into the store”. I did not like the look of him and declined, politely but firmly, to visit his store room or any other of his haunts. The poor fellow nearly lost his front teeth when he impudently laid a hand on me but, not wishing to cause a scene in the presence of ladies, I merely gave him a harmless right to the stomach and left him quietly propped up against the base of a large fountain near the entrance.

I returned to the Jaguar, dismissed the man I had engaged to guard it, and enjoyed a pipe while I read the Times obituaries. In no time at all, the clip-on tie was at my window and I gave him permission to place my provisions in the back seat. I tipped the poor creature more generously than he deserved, especially as I had to roar “On account!” at him several times before he stopped bleating on about the bill. I later discovered that most of the dozen eggs he had given me turned out to be broken, probably due to the inexplicable bumps on all the roads leading in and out of the place. Confounded things give you quite a jolt – I very nearly had to slow down.

That evening, I recounted my adventures to the Wilberforce-Smythes and we all had a jolly good laugh at the peculiar people who inhabit such strange places as these super markets. Before retiring for the evening, I left instructions for my man Hodges that our account with the village grocer was to be reopened at his earliest convenience, as I have no intention of returning to Mr. Sainsbury’s establishment.

In summary, I would advise against even one visit to such a place. While the experience is undeniably new, it is not pleasant, and gentlemen of taste would be better served by a good safari or a trip to the Himalayas. However, if exceptional circumstances force your hand, I would counsel you to adopt the same approach as you would in any other uncivilised place: accept no backchat from the natives and carry a sidearm at all times. Good luck to you all.

These aren't just *any* chocolate truffles...

No indeed, these are the tragic chocolate truffles that I thought I could make myself.

It all started out so well. I walked in on a Channel 4 programme called Kirstie's Homemade Christmas, where a reassuringly large woman was doing a feature on how to make chocolate truffles. This seemed mostly to involve eating chocolate and saying how nice it was, so I was immediately encouraged that it was something I could do really well.

The large lady explained that you heat up some whipping cream, add a spoon of honey, then melt in lots of grated chocolate and stir it into a yummy-looking goop called a ganache. This should be left overnight to cool and thicken. Resisting the temptation to eat my ganache, I dutifully left it overnight to cool and thicken.

Next day, I did as the not-insubstantial Kirstie had done - donning gloves, dusted in cocoa powder, and making little ball-shaped bits of ganache.

"That looks like a poo!" she had squealed, as she dropped a brown glob onto a tray. I was greatly encouraged to find that my own creations were similarly beautiful.

Now, came the tempering of the chocolate, a mouth-watering process whereby chocolate is melted, then tipped out onto a large marble slab and smoothed to a cool gloss with a palette knife. I had actually bought a granite slab and palette knife especially for this, and found myself daring to dream the chocolatier's dream as I worked away happily...

...but the sweet dreams turned bitter.

On TV, the generously-proportioned presenter took robust, spherical orbs of ganache and dipped them, one by one on a fork, into her tempered chocolate. Sadly, my own ganache resembled a series of unsuccessful bowel movements - flat splats that drooped and oozed off the fork almost immediately. The few that made it to the tempered chocolate simply sank without trace.

And this is where I wonder if I have been duped. Yes, I may need more chocolate and less whipped cream. Yes, I might try cooling the ganache on a larger tray to thicken it more. But no, I do not believe the ganache plops that Kirstie crafted were the same ones she dipped into her chocolate moments later. Who was that smiling chocolatier standing by her side, and were the firm balls perhaps his not hers?

It's academic now, of course. Just when I thought it was safe to come out of culinary retirement, this disaster has set me back another 10 years. In a house where I'm only 3rd best cook if I don't count The Cat, it's best to accept my limitations and play to my strengths. From now on, I'll focus on eating.

Goats

I really enjoyed working on the iPhone app to accompany The Men Who Stare At Goats movie, starring George Clooney, Ewan McGregor, and Kevin Spacey. Today, it was extremely pleasing to see that it has climbed to number 3 in the Free Apps chart on iTunes - no mean achievement!

The collaboration between FinBlade and our friends at Small Screen Productions has been great, and immense congratulations are due to Niall, Cam and James for some excellent work. If you have an iPhone, download the app now - it's free after all. Otherwise, click the link below to let Jon Ronson (author of the original Men Who Stare At Goats novel) to tell you all about it...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dFK7o3s5w-E

"e"

I'm usually a bit wary when someone gushes about a book. All too often, phrases like "trust me - you'll absolutely love it" are misguided, serving only to build the book up so that it eventually disappoints...

...which made "e" by Matt Beaumont a very pleasant surprise.

It didn't look promising at first glance - a novel without narrative, composed entirely of inter-office emails - but this turned out to be one of the most compelling and entertaining things I've read in years.

Set in a large London advertising agency, it charts a period of several weeks as the firm tries to win the much-prized Coca Cola account. Told only through the emails between characters - from the CEO to the secretarial temp - the story unfolds into a beautiful web of office politics, and corporate chaos. Perhaps my own career experiences make some of it especially relevant, but I think anyone who has ever worked in a large company will find themselves laughing aloud at characters who seem terribly familiar.

I won't spoil it by saying more. Just trust me - you'll absolutely love it ;-)

I shouldn't laugh but...

With all the unhappiness and hysteria surrounding "media flu", it was a nice to hear a positive swine-story for a change.

Anna's brother had the excellent idea to make a pretend mobile phone call while travelling on a crowded train. He spoke loudly and at length about his first day back in the UK after a wonderful trip to Mexico, then proceeded to stifle sneezes as the carriage around him emptied.

I know some people will frown at this, but I think it's no more irresponsible than the constant shrieking of the TV and tabloid news, and it certainly made me smile when I heard about it.

Nouveau Riche

They say there's nothing quite so vulgar as "new money". You know the sort of thing; someone in a shell-suit who's recently "won t' lotto" and decided to enhance their 3-bedroom semi with a Steinway grand piano in the front room and a $117,000 classic Ducati on the front lawn.

First generation money may be bad enough, but a sudden windfall almost always results in a helpless spasm of gauche purchases. Cash is wasted in an arterial spray of spending, as the "newly-minted" try desperately to reduce their balance to an amount they can understand.

What is it that makes those-who-have-recently-come-into-a-lot-of-money blow vast sums on wonderful things that they are unable to properly use or appreciate?

Anyway, I hear that Manchester City are thinking of spending over £100Million on Brazillian midfielder Kaka...

Toblerone Cappucino

Why did people in this country fail to embrace the great combination that was Kenco Cappio with Toblerone?

The convenience of an instant coffee drink, elevated out of mediocrity by the addition of numerous triangular chocolate chunks, should have enjoyed massive success. Released across Europe as "Cappuccino Specials", the makers added second variety, employing chunks of Milka chocolate in place of the Toblerone. Both proved epic...

...but not here. No, it seems we would rather cling to the misery of Tesco Instant Cappuccino (or, in areas of extreme deprivation, Nescafe "Italian"* Cappuccino) than that magnificent Toblerone infusion.

Before long, the product was gone, its shelf-space occupied by the sort of powdered-beverage-substitutes more suited to war-time rationing than 21st century consumerism. The unthinkable had occurred.

How did we let this happen? How many more great tastes must fall by the wayside? And did we learn nothing from the loss of Chocolate Pretzels?

They say that people get the politicians they deserve - I fear the same may be true of coffee products and, if it is, what a terrible indictment this is.

* we must hope that Italians never learn of the terrible wrongs done in their name