No not that kind.
The fiction kind. For several months it's sustained a stress fragmented brain, enabled me to experiment and to keep writing even when I'm knackered and I have the creativity of a lobotomised woodlouse. However, a couple of weeks ago I hit a new vein of gold in the mine that is my imagination and I'm writing a book again, my third.
It wouldn't be the first time I've started with a great fanfare and then failed to follow through, but I'm planning on committing and writing. Given the paucity of time that means the hundred words or so I squeeze out in my off hours need to be devoted to that, not to flash fiction contests. Thus I look on in envy and awe at people participating in the BlogFlash2012 and writing beautiful emotive microfictions (I'm looking at you, Cameron Lawton) but I'm not playing. I'm trying to devote myself to pushing on deeper and harder with my current work in progress.
It's contemporary, gritty and paranormal - a far cry from historical romance (but there's a romance just the same)... for those lovely people who like reading my work, here's an extract:
“You’re going to die, banshee bitch.”
They were close, pressing her. Smoke filled her nostrils, her mouth, the stench of burning flesh. In a moment their teeth would close down.
Closing her eyes, she blanked them out and focused on her own body. In her mind’s eye she flexed each muscle, followed the blood streaming through her veins, delved deep, deeper still, reaching down, down, down.
The whispers around her grew louder and it was no longer fingers touching her but claws, gouging at her flesh.
“…Gut you like a fish..”
Down, further still.
“Die… die… die…”
She felt it.
Her mind went black as her arms spread wide, blood dripping from her closed fist onto the circle.