About Me — Ashley Malecha
Two Truths and A Lie: I lived on a hobby farm with horses; I have given feedback to a published author, and I’ve been to two continents. (Comment what the lie is!)
“Tell me about yourself” is what teachers and professors ask or something similar on the first day of classes. Sometimes it’s two truths and a lie. Are we finding something in common with the course? Will you remember that one fact I told you after I was gone? Will the new girl I just met who as well say “Oh, me too!” After I introduce myself, “Hi, I’m Ashley Malecha, you call me Ashley (she/her), and I’m majoring in English-Creative Writing.” I could have mentioned that I write because I like to pretend that if someone is reading my words, I won’t be forgotten. I love to read Fantasy and don’t mind trying new genres, and I dread Literature classes because of the essays.
The Short Version
Ashley Malecha is a daydreamer, night-thinker, and a proud Hufflepuff, even though her Hogwarts letter never came.
Ashley is currently earning her Bachelor’s in English-Creative Writing while working as a part-time writing tutor and an editorial assistant intern for Yellow Medicine Review.
At two different schools, her poems: Little Red, Nepenthe, Ode to County Road 47, Paper is the Walls You Built Up, Dance of Alliance, “Hansel and Gretel,” Key to the Heart, Curiosity’s Cat, and Love is a Tree have been published in literary magazines. Her short story, The Visions of Freedom, has also been published in one.
Along with that, her poetry Nepenthe, Ode to County Road 47, and Curiosity’s Cat won first place in the Patsy Lea Core Award, and second place in Telling Women’s Stories for The Visions of Freedoms.
When not studying, she is stuffing her face in as many books as she can and the occasional indulgence of sweets, along with writing whatever story occupies her thoughts.
Before she divided her time on the Mississippi River with her black cat plus three more and two dogs and in the southwest corner of Minnesota on campus, she lived in the southwestern outskirts of the cities, somewhere west on a little hobby farm with four horses, a German Shepherd dog, indoor and outdoor cats, and further west in the countryside on a pond.
Me in the Third Person
At home:
Ashley was sitting alone at her desk. She had pulled back her chestnut brown hair into a loose ponytail, and her brown-purple splotched glasses that framed her brown eyes fell down her nose from staring at a computer screen. Two dogs ran into her room after her first class had finished. One had nudged her hand and left the room, while the other, a young pup, jumped on the bed, sprawling herself out.
At school:
On the weekends, Ashley hid among the grey covers on top of her dorm bed at the comfortable temperature set in the 60s. Sometimes she lost herself in what was on TV, most likely a Harry Potter movie marathon, allowing her mind to draw a blank before falling into long naps.
If it was a Sunday, she was in the commons building, doing the laundry. She’d drag her hamper filled to the top — surprising how a week’s worth of clothes for one person could take up so much room — into the laundry room and glare across the room. Usually, over half of the wash machines were occupied and the other half was out of order. She’d wait until someone came along and removed their clothes, complaining to herself about how some people let their laundry sit in the machines past their end time, or turned the room into small hills with heaps of clothes. After she shoved her clothes into a machine and took a seat in the lounge area, pulled her phone from her pocket, and messaged a friend for the umpteenth time on one concern.
Ashley: It’s such a mess in the laundry room. Gives me anxiety.
Friend: That’s why I moved into an apartment.
Ashley: How can someone forget about their clothes? I only brought a limited amount down here.
Ashley had known this friend since her first semester at the university, in the spring of 2022. January 2023 would mark their one-year friendship. She arrived in January 2022 after completing four years too long in community college and was ready to get her Bachelor's in English with Creative Writing. Her mother told her that coming in the middle of the school year meant people would have already formed friendships, and it might take a while for her to find new friends. It was a week or two in the new semester before classroom acquaintances became friends, but thanks to the small size of the Creative Writing program, she found herself a group of friends in the Writers Workshop course.
The Long Version
“A book is valuable not because of a single page, but because of the entire story woven within.” — Emily Wilcox
What is my story so far? What makes me so valuable?
My story, of course, started out as a seed of an idea like most stories to do. I imagine from a writer’s perspective a mother who didn’t yet think she would be a writer or wanted to be one, conceived of me (word used both ways). I’m not sure about my father. He seemed to me the guy who enjoyed the idea of having children. But like some, my mother didn’t know she could create another story until she did. As she says, I wasn’t exactly planned, it just happened. But somewhere deep down I was an idea brewing in her, a seed growing. We all have choices. My mother certainly did, too.
I imagine what makes others want to pick me and devour my content is the same reason my parents did. I’m not perfect. In fact, I have ADHD. Read me off the symptoms and I’d probably check off most of them. People may say don’t let mental illness define you. I allowed it to define me, even though I hated it. I’m the girl who talks nonstop and yet is quiet when shy. Do you want to hear a bunch of random facts, perhaps useless? I’d be happy to tell you about my obsession with the Pirates of the Caribbean and how it became an inspiration for a story, how I watched probably the whole of Friends in one semester of college and desperately wished Rachel ended up with Joey, how many times I’ve seen Harry Potter and read the books, or the amazing writing community (The Mighty Pens) I like to brag about. You could talk to me and I would unintentionally zone you out (which I’m sorry about, I’m quite spacey) or interrupt because something you said reminded me of this one time. You could say I resemble Anya from Frozen: “We like to finish each other's sandwiches.” Eventually, our conversation is so off-topic we won’t even remember what we were talking about. Some may think I’m touchy, but I just feel more than most. I’m quick to cry when I’ve been hurt and quick to defend myself and others where justice is needed. There is so much to see and hear that I don’t know what to pay attention to — is it my professor lecturing about something or the person walking by the classroom?
I’m like a starfish, covering all spaces — whether’s it the entire bed, the surfaces I leave my writing, the books on shelves, in bags and boxes, or my clothes scatted on the chairs, in a hamper, and on the floor. I am a computer with too many tabs open — too many ideas —, the spinning wheel of death, and music playing from somewhere I don’t know. And yet, I hide this messy first and only draft my parents created away from the world. I never could never embrace it. A “trash fire” as some writers call their drafts, and wish never to touch again. This messy, first “trash fire” draft, as Emily Wilcox says, may not be “great,.. but still (is) a book” regardless.
“I was printed out.” — Emily Wilcox
In Stephen King’s memoir, he says “writers are formed, not made.” What has shaped us into who we are? What clay parts have we been rolled into and twisted about to this result? How did our lives get written and finally printed out?
Besides my parents, I’d like to think if we were clay for the Greek Gods and Goddesses to play with then I’d think Hermes, Artemis, and Apollo took turns shaping me — bits of poetry and writing, some knowledge and language, love for animals and nature, and travel.
“They provided me with the papers to write on and the pen to write with and without them, my story would not exist.” — Emily Wilcox
My parents are also my dedication! They’ve allowed me to read vastly and driven me to so many book events, provided the utensils to write with, encouraged me along in their own understanding of what I do, and without them, I don’t know if I’d ever found my voice.
“ We are brief and we are beautiful and man are we bloody brilliant.” — Emily Wilcox
Don’t let self-doubt kill you from the inside out. As writers, we try hard to turn off our inner editor. I ask you to do the same! Our paths are dark and we stumble around with a flashlight, only seeing what’s so far ahead of us. Trust yourself and take that next step forward. We will only be first drafts and that’s okay, especially when we can’t go back to that one time. We are enough and don’t need fixing.
Since you made it this far…
You can find out more about my writing (Poison & Wine Sweeter Than Fiction) here (or on my website):
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Thank you so much for taking the time to get to know me (and to Emily for hopefully letting me quote her)!
~ Ashley
