ECW Press

ECW Press

ECW is Entertainment. ECW is Culture. ECW is Writing.

Publishers Weekly recognized ECW Press as one of the most diversified independent publishers in North America. ECW Press has published close to 1,000 books that are distributed throughout the English-speaking world and translated into dozens of languages. In the next year, we’ll release 50+ new titles and will continue to support and promote a vibrant backlist that includes poetry and fiction, pop-culture and political analysis, sports books, biography, and travel guides. Books by writers whose names you know and love — and by those who we’re very pleased to introduce for the first time.

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Who are we? After three decades, we still get asked about our name, those three little letters: ECW.

At first the acronym was self-descriptive: Essays on Canadian Writing (the name of the journal of literary criticism we started in 1974). But as the company grew and changed, our name, in our minds, also changed. We’ve heard the company called Essential Canadian Writing, Excellent Contemporary Writing, or, more recently, Extreme Cutting-Edge Writing. And these names have been, and still are, appropriate. But now we realize that each of those letters represents a particular strain of ECW Press’s diverse passions — Entertainment, Culture, Writing.

No matter how our name has been interpreted, however, there has always been one constant: our pursuit of excellent writing. We recognize that it’s our authors who make us what we are, who establish our reputation. And because of this we’re committed to bringing you the best writers and the best writing we know — in every genre. In the next decade, ECW will continue to grow and change.

Today, we’re publishing a heady mix of commercial and literary works that strive for a uniform standard of excellence: the best writing; the most exciting, controversial, and insightful takes on the hottest subject matter; ground-breaking design; and high production values.
Our goal is to support every ECW Press title with the kind of innovative marketing and promotion that give our books and authors the recognition they deserve.

Welcome to ECW.

ECW Press
665 Gerrard Street East
Toronto, ON M4M 1Y2
416-694-3348
info@ecwpress.com

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At ECW we believe that you can have your cake and eat it too, at least when it comes to the way you read. If you buy one of our print books we’ll give you the eBook for free! 

 

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Become a Shelf Monkey for the chance to review great ECW books!

 

 

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Books by this Publisher
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Once a Bitcoin Miner

Once a Bitcoin Miner

Scandal and Turmoil in the Cryptocurrency Wild West
edition:Paperback
More Info
Excerpt

 

There was a presentation by Bitwage, which offers a service that allows companies to pay their employees with cryptocurrency. I had been working on a second cryptocurrency article about that very subject, to coincide with Labor Day, and at that event, I met a lot who were taking salaries in Bitcoin—some entirely.

 

One of them was Gerald Cotten, a bright-eyed, sandy-haired 20-something, who like Mt. Gox’s Frenchman Mark Karpeles, seemed to be always smiling. Gerry, as he was known, had founded the exchange platform QuadrigaCX, where people can buy and sell cryptocurrency, and five years later, would die in India and send shockwaves across and beyond the cryptocurrency world—but that is a whole other story.

 

A business-school graduate, Gerry was a fixture in the Toronto’s burgeoning cryptocurrency scene, attending Anthony’s meetups even before the latter had secured his fashion-district building. Reserved, private and an avid player of Settlers of Catan, a nerdy, nerdy strategy board game, Gerry carefully avoided gluten and drank cider instead of beer due to digestive issues.

 

Gerry shook my hand and handed me a black business card, white text upon a dark, perforated steel theme. It was nice-looking, but it was clearly not made by a professional. There were at least three different types of fonts on it.

 

I had known Gerry a little by reputation, but of course, that was not unusual. At the time, there was few places in Canada where you could easily buy and sell cryptocurrency in an organized fashion, with Canadian dollars. Everyone knew Gerry and Quadriga. Aren’t you in Vancouver? I asked.

 

Oh, no, Gerry said, we were, but we just moved to Toronto.

 

I asked Gerry about Quadriga. It was then only nine months old, and it wasn’t doing that well. Only C$7.4 million worth of bitcoin traded hands on the platform that year, and it took in a meager C$22,168 in revenue December 2014 through January 2015, against almost four times that in losses.

 

Yet Gerry had gone all in. “I make all my money in Bitcoin,” he said. He was in for the long haul, a steadfast believer in the future of cryptocurrency.

 

For a while, I almost forgot about all the money I had lost. There was something oddly inspiring about Gerry. I decided to hold on to my Bitcoin.

 

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Anthem: Rush in the ’70s
Excerpt

 

Like Geezer Butler in Black Sabbath, to reiterate, Geddy indeed began on guitar. Alex, however, missed this part of Lee’s evolution.

 

“I didn’t know Ged when he played guitar. So the transition was already completed by the time we started jamming together and playing. Because that’s what we did after school. We’d plug into his amp and play. There was one guitar and one bass. So I’m not really sure about that transition. I’m sure he was interested in guitar like everybody was interested in guitar. But once we actually started playing and learning instruments, that was his chosen one. Just think John Rutsey in that early days—the drums became his thing but I don’t know if in his heart he wanted to be a drummer. I think he wanted to be a guitarist as well. But everybody had their job that they sort of gravitated to.”

 

Says Geddy, “I was nominated to be the bass player when the first band I was in, the bass player couldn’t be in our band. I think his parent’s prohibited him or something, and we had no bass player so they said, ‘You play bass’ and I said okay, and that was how simple it was. That happens to a lot of bass players. Everyone wants to be a guitar player, but I was happy to be bass player. Bass player is like being a major league catcher. It’s the quickest way to the majors. Nobody wants to be a bass player. It’s a great instrument, it really is, awesome way to spend your time. I had teachers you know; I’m just carrying on the tradition of Jack Bruce, Jack Casady, Chris Squire, a fine tradition of noisy bass players that refuse to stay in the background. So I feel that’s my sacred duty, to carry on what they started.”

 

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Joetry

Joetry

Well-Selected Lyrix from Six Decades of Song
edition:Paperback
tagged : canadian
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Cradle of the Deep

Cradle of the Deep

A Crime Novel
edition:Paperback
tagged : crime
More Info
Excerpt

 

A styro in each hand, creamers, sugar packets and stir sticks on top, the Squamish Times wedged under his arm. Passing the Skylark, thinking of switching rides, Denny set the cups on the roof and tugged open the door. Getting behind the wheel, he set a styro on the dash, looking at Bobbi at the phone box, hoping this guy Carmen came through with the chalet, let them hide out a day or so. Denny fixed his coffee, thinking of a cozy fire, nice and warm, just the two of them counting out the cash, helping themselves to Carmen’s liquor.

 

If that didn’t work out, he knew this guy in Whistler, another hour north. Rubin Stevens grew some righteous weed — a friendly type of guy, the kind you could look up and drop in on — the guy who made the run to Vancouver every couple of weeks, dropping off a quarter pound of homegrown to Wilson and his flat-mates, each of them chipping in seventy-five bucks. Kept Denny’s head on right, with a good buzz, but needing to suck on his MediHaler, dealing with his asthma. Betting if he hadn’t dodged his uncle, the asthma would have kept him from conscription, his uncle putting him down as 4-F, like he told that job recruiter.

 

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Personal Account

Personal Account

25 Tales About Leadership, Learning, and Legacy from a Lifetime at Bank of Montreal
edition:Hardcover
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Thirst for Justice
Excerpt

 

Michael took a deep breath before turning to his next patient. She was the size of a two-year-old American toddler, although her head was disproportionately large. Big brown eyes, but vacant. Skin stretched over bones.  Legs like two sticks hinged with a golf ball in the middle. He looked at the chart. Kapinga Kabobo was seven years old. Nineteen pounds. She should have weighed at least forty. The latest cholera outbreak had tripled the number of people seeking medical attention at the International Medical Assistance Foundation field hospital in Goma.

 

Michael had quickly become a staff favourite, his quiet confidence and warmth revealed in a broad smile and the crows’ feet at the corners of his eyes. He opened the girl’s mouth gently and used a tongue depressor to take a quick look. “Let’s get this girl on a rehydration program. If she can’t swallow, then use intravenous glucose and electrolytes.” Perhaps startled by the foreign sound of Michael’s voice, the girl defecated onto the dirt floor of the medical tent. The watery diarrhea contained flecks of mucous and epithelial cells the size of rice grains, a telltale sign of cholera.

 

“We also need some metronidazole. Add it to the iv drip please.” He scrawled instructions onto the chart.

 

The girl’s listless eyes fluttered and closed. She was fading fast.

 

“Come on sweetheart, don’t give up on us now,” Michael pleaded, unwilling to admit that she was probably too far gone. He checked her pulse. Rapid, way faster than it should have been. He took her blood pressure. Low and falling. There was nothing he could do. He held her hand and stroked her cheek, trying to offer some small comfort as he heard the last, rattling breath. Biting back grief and frustration, Michael closed her eyes. Back in Seattle he could have saved her life. Then again, back in the US he’d never seen a case of cholera and probably never would.

 

He knew that it wasn’t really the disease that had killed her. It was the fact that she had no clean water to drink, and no latrine for going to the bathroom. There were no parents or other relatives to notify; the girl was an orphan and a refugee. Michael would fill out the death certificate later. There were living, breathing, laughing, crying children needing his help.

 

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Fight or Submit
Excerpt

 

The flight from Kiev, where I have business interests, to my community in the interior of British Columbia is close to 12,000 kms. With stops in Amsterdam and Calgary, it takes 26 hours from the time my driver, Volodya, picks me up my flat near Bessarabska Square and I arrive at my Westbank office in the British Columbia interior. It is a flight I take back and forth several times a year, often after several months-long stays. But each time I arrive on the last leg of the trip from Calgary to Kelowna, I feel a surge of energy as we pass over the towering peaks of the outer Rockies and begin our descent onto the interior plateau where my Okanagan people have lived since time immemorial. My Indigenous territory is part of me. It belongs to me and I belong to it. Or rather, what’s left of it.

 

The airport is on the other end of town, so while we chat, we pass through the heart of the city where my great grandfather once owned a major part of the downtown area before he was cheated out of it by locals working with a corrupt magistrate.

 

The Westbank reserve is on the west side of the W.A.C. Bennett Bridge spanning the narrow section of Lake Okanagan. It is one of a few tiny pieces of the once vast Okanagan territory that remains under our control. I was born and grew up in a shack without plumbing or electricity on the hills overlooking the lake. My earliest memories are of kneeling in the field, gathering vegetables alongside my mother. And, when I was older, riding our horses along the ridge with my brother Noll. As a young man, I ranched these lands and for more than a dozen years, in the 1970s and 1980s and again at the turn of the century, I was Chief of the Westbank First Nation.

 

Both sides of the road cutting through the reserve are now crowded with stores and businesses on leased reserve lands in deals I negotiated to bring income into what was once the poorest reserve in Canada. During my first ten years as chief, I increased the band’s leasing revenues by more than 3,500%. I fought for every advantage for my people so we could have the economic development we needed to give a future to our children. But I always fought for more than that. I fought and I continue to fight for the land and the resources on our greater Okanagan territory that encompasses thousands of square kilometres in the B.C. interior.

 

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Canadarm and Collaboration
Excerpt

 

While Parazynski had dozens of hours of spacewalking experience and the ground trusted his work, the Canadian Space Agency’s Ken Podwalski still remembers the tension while watching the astronaut run through the procedures that his team helped develop.

 

“You get into this remarkable complicated [situation] ... everything piling together in terms of how bad a situation it is, but then look at the eloquence of the solution,” he said. Those elements were so simple that even a teenager could grasp them: Canadarm2, a mobile extender, cufflinks, and a hardworking team. “The way that all worked cooperatively together, it’s just almost a fascinating ... juxtaposition. I hate to use a fancy word like that, but it really kind of reflects one off the other,” Podwalski said.

 

And it worked. Did it ever work. Not only did the team save the solar array, but incredibly, this fix – thrown together over 72 gruelling hours in Montreal and Houston and other space station center locations – was still holding together beautifully nine years later, according to a photo posted on Twitter that Parazynski commented on. “Our repairs are still under warranty,” joked the retired astronaut in 2016.a href="#_ftn2" name="_ftnref2"

 

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