On the last day of the Hydra Publications Blog Hop, I’d like to welcome author James William Peercy, author of Without a Conscious, a thriller published by Hydra. First, lets get to know James a bit better as he has been kind enough to answer a couple of questions.
How did you come up with the title for ‘Without A Conscious…’?
The title came from how the main character finds his clues in the story. Cliff Fulton was taught many techniques of problem solving when he was a child by his grandmother. He and his family also have a knack for
unconsciously putting together facts. This is what started the idea,
‘Without A Conscious…’, implying ‘Without a conscious thought…’.
Yet the title is even more than that. It is the first part of a
sentence and each of the next four books in the series will complete the
Did a real-life experience give you the idea?
Yes. What started it all was when my father was diagnosed with colon
cancer, and I did research on a solution that did not involve
chemotherapy, surgery, or radiation. I found this solution had been
discovered back in 1950.
What is your writing process? Do you outline or write on the fly?
My first stage is research. I read all about anything and everything on
a topic. As I research, my mind creates a basic synopsis, i.e., the
beginning and the end of the story, and then I begin to write, or rather
the story begins to create itself. Characters meet and react like real
people, no matter what the surroundings. We must feel their agony,
fears, and joys until the final end.
And now for your reading pleasure, an excerpt from Without a Conscious.
The photo stared up at him; it was a picture of an older woman lying under
a bridge. The light green sweatshirt, sweat pants, and bright white
tennis shoes appeared clean and new, the camera making sure the face was
shown. It showed her dead.
Time stopped as the meaning of the photo slammed into his conscious mind.
This could not be real; it did not even feel real. It was a movie one
watched on television, or play portrayed at the theatre, or a . . . the
seconds stretched out as time waited patiently, taunting him with a
reality that he refused to believe. In the background the kitchen
ceiling fan rattled, its repetitive singing lulling him into limbo.
Wheels screeched outside the apartment window, and he jumped, almost
dropping the photo. Like the calm before an inevitable storm, his mind
fought against this. In slow motion, he opened the envelope in which the
picture had come, and stared into the empty package. He had to go to the
The note said otherwise, though those particular words were not on it.
It was printed on a three by five card, using a serif font, and simply
stated, ‘Where is it?’ This had to be a sick joke.
He turned on his cell phone, pressed find, and located his grandmother’s
number. The system paused, the wireless bars dropping and then
returning, as he anxiously watched her number cross the screen. Taking
way too long, the top of the phone finally showed ‘dialing’.
The line rang and an older, familiar, voice answered, “I’m not here right
now, but please leave a message.” A tone sounded.
“Gran, this is Cliff,” he paused as his voice stuck in his throat. This
was impossible. This picture could not be real. Things like this just
didn’t happen to real people . . .