Skipped judo tonight, walking wounded*, and wrote instead. About 1100 words in Across a Wounded Land, so that’s not too bad. Granted, there’s some cut’n’paste from the first draft, but not too much tonight.
The office was a white cube, with a small white desk in the geometric center of the floor. White curtains framed a sunny north window. Hamid do Rufinnus wore soft white linens and, Leonid felt confident, white leather boots. The only spray of color in the room came from a dwarf cherry tree, a bonsai in full cascade, standing in a tall, narrow lacquered white pot atop a waist-high pillar of glittering, pale quartz. The waterfall of its leaves trailed almost to the white floor. Minute pink blossoms dotted its entire languid length. Leonid’s eyes kept straying back to the flowers; against the starkness of this room, they seemed to pulse with hallucinatory color.
I think it’s proceeding not too badly.
*Well, sore from working out. First time back. Should’ve stretched.