utter drivel?

[DrNOmeansNO]

I so want to write this story but have no idea whether people will even like my writing style. Would appreciate some honest feedback - happy to return the favour. Thanks hopefully in advance!

My mother saw the beauty in everything. Poetry, paintings, people and flowers filled our house with great abundance no matter the month or occasion (or even lack thereof.)
“There need be no rhyme nor reason to dwell on the beauty of life,” she would say, and what a wonderful life we had, my eccentric family and I.

“Pleasure!” As in, it was his pleasure to be helping us out. It was the first word I heard him say and honestly the way it rolled so effortlessly over his tongue, steeped in seemingly endless possibilities stayed with me all of these years as if it had happened only yesterday. He was confident without any arrogance, sure of himself and secure in the knowledge we’d be lost without him, our plans for the future safe only in his hands. His hands, so strong and tanned with skin as freckled as a hens egg from hours exposed to the sun, his palms permanently tinged moss green and thick with the scent of plants.
I look into the garden now from the dining room window, replay the word over in my mind and I'm back all those years ago, on the swing that still hangs from the willow, watching him shake hands with my father and uttering that memorable word - pleasure. Loose white shirt with its cuffs rolled back above his elbows, dark cream trousers hiding the form of his lower limbs and the dark green field boots with buckles on the sides that he never went a day without wearing.
Suddenly he's looking at me, and then to the floor, and then back to my father who puts his hand firmly on his shoulder and leads him through the blue gate in the garden wall and down to the little thatched summerhouse. Shortly after my father reappeared through the door, offered me a brief smile and without breaking his stride asked me to fetch a cup of tea and slice of cake for our gardener. “Can’t Anna do it?” I replied quickly. “Well I dare say she can, but I’m asking you darling.” I stopped abruptly on the swing digging my toes into the soft earth. “Then, it would be my pleasure,” I said, crossing my legs into a brief courtesy and drawing out the ‘l’ in the word. I felt foolish as soon as I’d said it but luckily father carried on up to the house, shaking his head and dismissing my subtle attempt at sarcasm. I looked down at the grass for a moment then followed up behind him, made my way to the kitchen and did what he asked me to do.

It was around the same time the previous year that we had first been to visit the house. Father drove us up from London early one Sunday morning, the entire journey consisted of him telling us it would be madness for us to move, and that he didn’t see how leaving the city would be in any of our best interests. Finally, after what felt like forever our car began to slow down a long tree lined avenue, dotted with Georgian box houses before coming to a stop at the very last one. We clambered out and followed mother as she pushed her way through a thicket of over grown brambles that smothered the far side of the house and father hoisted me up onto his shoulders so that I could sneak a peek over the wall and into the garden beyond.
“It was a picnic house”, mother said enthusiastically. “The river was the main entrance and they would come by boat, up the steps and into the garden with their baskets, umbrellas and various bits. Isn’t it pretty Michael?”
“Pretty expensive, I’ll give you that,” he said wryly, lighting a cigarette.
But the fact was that father never took much convincing when it came to matters of my mother. It was clear from that very moment she had fallen in love with the house, the water meadows, the views of the Thames, and she would inevitably get her own way. Six weeks later with our belongings packed we were driving once more out to Richmond, the proud new owners of Winterfold House.

Our involvement with the nurseries came a little while after and was entirely coincidental. Our garden overlooked a small nursery which had been carved from the original grounds of the house and was a quiet, local affair with just a handful of plants people looking after it. We could just about see the greenhouses and their misted glass windows from the bedrooms on the upper floor, but in the garden, enclosed by its high ivy covered walls we barley knew it existed. Winterfold was much bigger than our previous house and my parents insisted on filling it with family, friends, and acquaintances for the majority of the time. I barely recall a dinner when it was just the three of us and it was over one of those evenings with friends that my parents were inspired to breathe new life into the nurseries. An old friend of my mothers, an Italian lady called Ma Pardoe who was head chef at a well known restaurant in London was joining us for dinner. She shared her dreams of leaving the city too and setting up a small space with a kitchen garden where she could grown her own organic produce. My mother leapt from her chair and insisted on showing Ma the gardens and glasshouses right there and then, and asking if it would be suitable for such an endeavour. Ma agreed that the space could indeed be transformed into something quite magical with the right care and attention and accepted on one condition, that she could bring her friends son to tend the gardens and that is how we came to meet Peter.

It's not drivel. It's quite readable, but it does read a little as though it was written in a stream of consciousness.

You start talking about mother then in the second paragraph we've moved onto "he". I guessed it was "father" but wasn't sure until part way through that section. Then you're dashing on from a description of him straight into (in the same paragraph, you should have started a new one) a little anecdote.

If you can show rather than tell it's much better. Things like "my eccentric family"-let the reader judge if they think they're eccentric, nothing you've put here marks that for me, you need to show it to the reader by what they do, how they react, what is ordinary for them.

Hope that helps.

Thanks so much for that @maragretthursday I will take your comments on board and try harder

Is this supposed to be the beginning? because you've written all that and nothing's actually happened. There's a man who appears to be important but we don't know why - do you love him or hate him? - yet we've been told the name of the person who inspired your parents to start growing stuff after they've been in this house for a short time.

I would be slightly put off by the first paragraph. It tells us very little except that mother was Arty, and the next line is a complete break. You need a strong opening. I would start:

"Pleasure!" It was the first word I heard him say, and I still hear the way it rolled effortlessly over his tongue, steeped in seemingly endless possibilities. I remember his hands; strong and tanned from hours in the sun, his palms tinged moss green and thick with the scent of plants. The loose white shirt with its cuffs rolled back above his elbows, dark cream trousers hiding the form of his lower limbs and those ever-present green field boots with buckles on the sides. He was so sure of himself and in the knowledge that we'd be lost without him - and it was his pleasure to help us out.

There's the swing where I was sitting, still hanging from the willow. [would you hang a swing from willow? doesn't it bend?]

Suddenly he's looking at me, then to the floor; then my father puts a hand firmly on his shoulder and leads him through the blue gate in the garden wall and down to the little thatched summerhouse. Then my father's back, asking me to fetch tea and cake for our gardener.

“Can’t Anna do it?” - I didn't want to leave this moment [or whatever occurs to you: is she petulant? show a reason for this ]
“I dare say she can, but I’m asking you darling.”

I stopped abruptly on the swing, digging my toes into the soft earth. “Then it would be my pleasure,” I said, dipping into a brief courtesy and drawing out the ‘l’ in the word. I felt foolish as soon as I’d said it but father carried on up to the house, shaking his head at my adolescent attempt at sarcasm. I looked down at the grass for a moment then followed up behind him.

Then you might (possibly) mention mother's love of beauty and father's indulgence as the reason they're in this house needing a gardener in the first place

So what you’re saying @merryhouse is it is indeed drivel I very much appreciate your words, and by no means expected anyone to spend that much time on this so thank you very much. Perhaps this is a task too grand after all. I have written much more - this was just a snippet but will save wasting any more time on it as from your advice I can see that I’m going completely in the wrong direction. Thanks again x

You’re not going in the ‘wrong direction’, it just needs to decide what it is, and be edited accordingly, because at the moment that isn’t clear. For instance, is this a short story? A novel opening? A family memoir about real events? Who is narrating it — the now-adult child of the family? Is the gardener the most important character, rather than the parents? What is the relationship between him and the narrator? Because the detail with which he and his clothes are described (the tanned hands, the loose white shirt, the trousers, the boots, the confidence) — especially as there’s been no physical description of either parent — suggest almost a romantic interest from the narrator, whom I thought was a young woman at first, but then she’s getting off a swing and seems to be a child? Why does the father ‘firmly’ steer the new gardener off down the garden (which suggests a very young man and/or some level of coercion to me?) yet then comes looking for tea and cake for him?

But those things are minor — I just think you need to make it clearer what the reader is reading, because different things work or don’t work if it’s a family saga based on real events, or the story of how a family came to inhabit a house, compared to if it’s a short story or novel.

Oooh my, I certainly didn't mean you to take that from my post! Wouldn't have bothered editing if it was dross - and please note I used your own words the vast majority of the time.

I like to read, and like words. I'd write stories if I had any concept of how real people behaved.

Basically everything Erinyes said. Please don't stop!

Hi OP, this is definitely not drivel! Although I can't see where this is going just yet, I really like your style.
Just a few questions:
Are "he", the gardener and Peter all the same person? Are you hoping the main character will fall in love with him/one of them?
There is a really sharp transition between the mother's comment and the unrelated man's quote.
While, like a previous poster, I don't yet see how the family are eccentric, I'm sure you will develop them further. If you ever do decide to write more, I'd be interested to read it!

Not drivel at all! You have a lovely way of writing, the prose is evocative, not overly descriptive, and it's interesting to gain insight into your family and home.

I liked that you mentioned your family was eccentric, which made me want to read more to see what they did to make them eccentric.

Yes it does need editing as previous posts mentioned, but that is true of all writing. A good editor would help you re-order and structure things so that it flows better rather than meandering - and I would agree that you need a different opening paragraph. One that grabs attention. Perhaps also giving a premise for the rest of the story.

Is it a short story, or a book, you're hoping to write?

But well done - brava!

I like it! It’s not drivel!

His hands, so strong and tanned with skin as freckled as a hens egg from hours exposed to the sun, his palms permanently tinged moss green and thick with the scent of plants.

I like where you are going with parts like this. I like the freckled hens egg bit. Very evocative. I’d suggest making sure it doesn’t go too Mills & Boon unless that’s what your aiming for! Thinking of “form of his lower limbs”! By golly! Love the scenes you have set. I want to go there.

I think I’d leave out lines like and what a wonderful life we had, my eccentric family and I as it breaks the reader out of our spell and back into the present, when I’d just like to stay in the story.

I quite like your mysterious, stream of consciousness style, I’m intrigued. It feels natural whereas sometimes it can feel like an obvious device or a set up for a horrible happening so you can’t enjoy it because you know doom is happening soon. I agree the transitions, eg to nurseries - do you mean child or plant?! need tweaks and the he’s and they’s need smoothing and some editing for the pacing of the sentences, some get a little long.

I imagine it sounding gorgeous as an audiobook too, and I’m not really an audiobook person. I’m no expert but it felt nicely old fashioned. I love H.E Bates, E M Delafield, George Eliot so I like that it doesn’t sound modern IYSWIM. I like a readable, but sumptuous book.

Keep going

Thank you all for your points I so appreciate the encouragement to carry on. I have kept going but tweaked what I’ve written so far… I’d love to repost a bit for further critique to see if I am going in the right direction x

tweaked...

“Pleasure!” As in, it was his pleasure to be helping us out.
It was the first word I heard him speak and it slipped out so effortlessly in his soft, deep voice that it made it impossible for me to forget the phrase. A word that still reminds me of him no matter where or from whom I may hear it. I close my eyes and repeat it over in my mind and I'm back all those years ago, on the swing in my garden, watching him shake hands with my father before uttering it oh so casually - pleasure. Loose white shirt with its cuffs rolled back above his elbows, brown weathered trousers hiding the form of his lower limbs and the dark green field boots with buckles on the sides that he never went a day without wearing.

Perhaps that’s where it all began, with his carefree attitude and relaxed attire revealing flashes of tanned, freckled skin beneath collar and cuffs, proof of a life spent working hard outdoors. He was charming, but the qualities that made him appear seem so approachable to others served only to make me feel more unnerved. Our new gardener - for the summer at least. Then before I can process whats happening, he’s looking at me, then to the floor, and then back to my father who offers his hand in an effort to secure the proposed contract of six weeks work on our gardens, they shake on it and then comes the ‘pleasure.’
A pinching blush spreads across my cheeks and whilst I am unaware of the exact cause, be it the glance or the word, I feel a huge sense of relief that both men are walking away from me, making their way through the garden wall and down to the cottage beyond it.

Taking on a groundsman in exchange for three meals each day and board in our garden cottage was my mothers idea of a good deal and something my father whole heartedly supported. The cottage had been empty since we completed renovations on the main house so it made perfect sense for someone to stay there in exchange for work. During the Winter months it became part-time toolshed, storage room, and home to a variety of animals seeking shelter, including our own cat Bobbin who got evicted from our house each night before my parents went to bed. In the summer it was transformed into a very pleasant space, a simple abode for guests who had maybe enjoyed a little too much wine with dinner and when sat inside with the door wide open it was as if the garden became just another room. It had a small fireplace in the centre which heated the whole place perfectly, and there was a ladder going up into a nook where a day bed was permanently set up with a mattress, pillows and quilts then just a few shelves for a book or two, a small round table and a lamp. The gardener needn’t pay anything whilst under our employment, would be given exclusive access to the cottage and could do as he pleased for the most part, providing he spent six hours each day (excluding Sundays) tending to the gardens and the overgrown nursery behind it. He was free to join us in the main house for meals or eat alone in the cottage if he preferred and could have as little or as much involvement with our family as he wished, then after the six weeks was up the situation would be reviewed for either extension or termination.

Our house was never empty and was always filled with family, friends, and even friends of friends who often dropped by unannounced and joined us for long lunches and dinners. My parents adored the company of others and my mother who spent most of the day alone in her studio, loved nothing more than to enjoy a glass of wine in the late afternoon listening to my father converse with a small audience about various subject matters. My mother was by no means shy, but preferred to sit back and quietly observe unless pressed by my father for her opinion on things that he knew she was passionate about, namely music and art. In late Spring, Summer and early Autumn meals were eaten outside on the terrace such was my families love of nature and being outdoors, a box of blankets were kept next to the table for any particularly delicate guests who may shudder at the thought of dining alfresco below a comfortable ten degrees.

Maybe it was during one of those first meals on the terrace where he joined us for a late lunch, when sitting opposite me it became apparent he was unsure what to do with his moss stained hands, but rather than asking to use the bathroom he simply placed them underneath the table hiding his soiled palms from the world. During the meal he offered up very little conversation and avoided answering the bombardment of questions from my father as to just ‘who was Peter Bloom outside of the garden?’ and did the name inspire the career or was it sheer serendipity at play. Instead, he seemed utterly transfixed with keeping his hands hidden away except for when absolutely necessary which told me more about him than any of fathers probing questions ever could.

It could have been during one of those hazy afternoons after lunch where he would head back down to the nurseries to remove the dandelions from the beds, clear away the brambles and pull the over grown ivy from the glasshouses, scraping the surplus into neat piles before carefully setting them alight, filling the summer air with a crackle and smoke. My parents would drag lunches out for as long as physically possible but as soon as he had finished eating he would thank them, excuse himself and retreat back into his own little wilderness. I would wait for five minutes or so before excusing myself then following, hoping to catch a glimpse of him through the door way in the garden wall from my swing. The door, with its black flaking paint had up until that point always been kept shut for no other reason than to hide away the overgrown plot behind it, but since his arrival the door was never closed and it felt like a whole new world had opened up to me.

Maybe it started in the garden. Or in the cottage. Or on his second day when I was asked to give him a brief tour of our home and introduce him to Anna our house keeper and cook, or as I showed him the back of the nurseries where the water meadows merged seamlessly into the river bank. ‘This your boat?’ he asked, pointing at the little chipped sail boat that was clinking against the crooked jetty. ‘Yes’ I said, ‘although we never use it. ‘Could I?’ he asked. ‘I guess’, I said. ‘But I’m not sure where you’d go in it’. He was detached from my response but clearly intrigued by the boat. It was small and with the two clunky oars tucked under the bench in the centre of it, there was hardly much room for anything else. It was painted white and had a thick blue line running around the middle of it with black sloping letters at the front where three faint words read ‘The Water Poet. ’My family had never used the boat and given the size and condition it was in, I could hardly imagine either of my parents rowing it out on the Thames. ‘Did you want to use it now?’ I aksed him. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I should be getting back to work, there’s a lot your father wants done in six weeks.’ A polite rejection, as if he had sensed my eagerness to spend a little more time with him, he was pruning my enthusiasm as he would an overgrown rose, and all whilst implying he’d be gone when the the six weeks was up. It was a double blow and it stung.

Our conversation was over and I walked with him back to the cottage trying not to let the disappointment show on my face. He picked up a trowel that had been hanging with various other tools inside the cottage, grabbed a pitch fork that had been leaning against the wall, and a box of matches then slung them into the wheelbarrow. ‘Thanks for the tour,’ he said, a subtle attempt to get rid of me. I said if he needed anything else to let me know. ‘Ask your dad about the boat,’ he shouted back. ‘Sure,’ I replied, watching as he walked away towards the greenhouses, the sunlight catching the flaxen strands in his hair. I stood in the door way to the cottage, yet another door that was now permanently open, another reminder of his presence at Wintersham. The room was dark and cooler than outside and although he had only arrived yesterday the air inside it already smelled of him, a masculine, earthy scent that was different to anything I had known, I took a step inside and breathed the smell in deeply. The radio was playing a Paul Simon track and after thinking about switching it off, I decided to let it keep playing and drown out the sound of the bird song. I glanced over to the table and noticed a paperback book, an empty plate and a half full glass of water. I picked up the glass and brought it to my mouth, touching my lips to where his could have been, I took a small sip and then, after remembering myself, quickly placed it back onto the table. I picked up the book, a copy of ‘Tender is the night’ and flicked to the page that he’d been reading which was bookmarked with a creased photograph of him and girl of a similar age. He had his arms around her and his eyes fixed to the camera whilst she was looking up at him - both smiling widely. A girlfriend perhaps? I looked to the words on the page and read the first line that caught my eye,
“Actually that’s my secret — I can’t even talk about you to anybody because I don’t want any more people to know how wonderful you are.”
Were those the last words he had read? Had he put the book down because that passage hit a nerve? I looked back to the photograph and my heart sank a little so I shut the book and placed it back down on the table, I turned off the radio and closed the door behind me. What left me uneasy was not the fact that I didn’t really know him, but the fact that he didn’t really know me or show any signs for that matter of wanting to, and then there was the frustration that without even realising it I had spent the entire afternoon trying to will him to like me, my subtlety was without compare.

Maybe there wasn’t even an exact moment. Life just seems to sweep you up sometimes and whilst your wittering away at the day to day formalities suddenly a week has gone by, two, then a month and before you know it an entire summer has passed and the whole time it’s been there, right under your nose, silently building to a deafening crescendo but by that point it’s too late, time has surpassed you and you are left with if onlys and what could have beens.

I ask myself how could I have missed it? The truth I suppose is that there is complexity in the wanting, a joy to the dreaming without any of the hurt. We think we know exactly who we are, what we want and exactly how others must perceive us, but often it is easier to accept that we will fail than it is to simply try and not succeed.

At lunch on the third day, I could feel his eyes on me as I was detailing my plans for the afternoon. For my sixteenth birthday earlier that year my father had brought me a horse which I kept stabled in a field close by to the house, and I was keen to practice for a competition that I had coming up later that month. After I had finished explaining the times and fence heights that I would need to achieve in order to qualify for the competition, I became thoroughly aware that his gaze was on me. The thought of holding his attention for that long both excited and intimidated me, perhaps he did want to know me after all. I took a sip of my drink and held out a moment longer before finally turning my eyes to meet his. I had allowed my self to imagine a look of approval maybe even admiration on his face but instead I was met with a furrowed brow and a smirk escaping from his lips. Why was he being so cruel? What could I have done to deserve this?

It isn't drivel; it's quite polished. The second version is leaner -- ihe first version gives the impression of starting scene after scene without letting us know where we are going with any of them. But in both versions I feel I'm being made to hold lots and lots of info my head without being gven clues about where and how to store it.

I get that you are trying to combine two tasks in each para -- setting the scene and pressing forward the narrative, which is a good aspiration . But I think you would have more success if you separated those tasks at the beginning of your story (and possibly killed a few more of your darlings).

Btw, it is easy to fall into the illusion that one's attempts at writing must be utter drivel if they aren't absolutely wonderful. The reality is much less cruel.

Just one quick extra point. I do think that cutting is the best and hardest part of writing. It is so hard to see this when you have spent ages crafting a sentence or an image. I know I am often guilty of failing to see it when i try and write.
I think that the paras you have written would be more compelling if you lost some of the description (eg there is one para that refers three times, instead of once, to Peter's dirty, hidden hands) and some of the more showy phrases (eg "complexity in the wanting, a joy to the dreaming without any of the hurt")