• Moore Not Less

    ashley is a wanderer. a believer. a daydream hustler. her heart eats beats. she lives sometimes in her mind but always in her dreams. she wants to see and feel and explore everything this great wide world has to offer. she’s an aspiring writer, an accomplished cupcake baker and a crafting wizard. she has a soft spot for kerouac and is in a budding love affair with bukowski. she is always adventuring and hopes you'll join in on the fun!

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My heart is a lonely wanderer.

As I wrote my ‘About Me’ section the other day, something occurred to me: I have no idea when or why or how I started to love writing.

This realization seemed rather disorienting, considering the fact that I just decided to call myself a writer, like, yesterday.  If I’m going to be so bold as to give myself that kind of title, with all the clout and expectations and hardship that goes along with it, I should be able to pinpoint the moment. You know the moment. The moment you sat down with a blank notebook and a new pen and said “this is it. This is the only thing I can see myself doing for the rest of my life.”

The thing is, I never really had that moment. Yes, words have been a part of my life since before I am biologically able to remember – but that doesn’t really make me any different from the other billions of human beings on this planet; it also doesn’t give me any information as to where this dream originated.

So I started thinking. I flipped through the impressive quantity of journals I’ve amassed over the years, aimlessly wandered through my old blogs and just took some time with my own thoughts.  Somewhere between the infinite pages of melodramatic teenage angst and overly sentimental gratitude lists, I found my answer: writing is more than just a dream or an occupation or a lifestyle. Writing is now, and always has been, my home.

The concept of ‘home’ is another one of those ideas that has recently weighed heavily on my weary heart.  The truth is, I’ve never felt settled in one place. I’ve lived a rather nomadic lifestyle since the day I turned 18, and even though I’ve somehow found myself back ‘home’ with my parents for a short while, I still can’t help the fact that the only place I feel truly at home is buried deep inside my words. Words gave me a voice when I was perpetually outspoken by my two elder siblings. Words gave me companionship when I was thousands of miles away from anything I ever knew.  Words gave my heart a place to call home when I had nowhere to go.

So maybe I don’t have that one shining moment, that one good story about how I came to be a writer..but what I do have is something so powerful, so meaningful, so entirely engrained in who I am and how I function as a particle in this universe that I wouldn’t change it for anything.



Well, I guess it’s now or never.

The other day I realized something: I’ve registered over 10 different blogs in my name over the course of the past few years. Ten. That’s more than two per year, if you do the math. Ten sites retired early to the already massive blogger graveyard in the sky.

After close consideration (and a frantic search to find and delete all of the potentially incriminating sites), I came to the conclusion that if I spent half as much time seriously writing as I have posting incoherent ramblings online, then I’d be at least halfway to a book by now.  Seriously.  Why is it that we’re so willing to post our life stories online, in whatever raw state might flow free from our consciousness, but we refuse to take the time to seriously consider our thoughts and what value they might hold if bound together?

For me personally, I’ve found one of my main struggles is knowing that my words and thoughts are valuable; yes, I can plaster them across the inter-webs at no cost to me or anyone else, but the minute I put any real time or effort into them, well that’s starting to cost something. It’s valuable time and energy and it’s also me making a very bold statement: these are my thoughts and I think it’s worth your time to read them.

I can’t really tell you how I got to this place, I guess, but I’m here. I’m ready to make that declaration and hope I can continue to believe it. I’m a writer. I’m a writer and I’m writing a book. A real, live, breathing book. It’s not going to be pretty, it’s probably going to kick the living crap out of me, but I’m going to do it. I’m going to follow-through with this in a way I was never able to with all of those blogs because my thoughts are worth it. I’m worth it.

So world, I hope you’ll take this journey with me.  I can’t promise you anything exciting or overly humorous, or really anything out of the ordinary. What I can promise you is that I’ll be honest and open and share with you any wisdom that I somehow manage to accrue over the course of the next year. I promise that if you stick with me, and give me a chance, it’ll be worth your time.


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