Astray is a storytelling project about the world and the Earth.
As a publication, we seek to contemplate the breadth of human experience and engage in conversation about travel, place, culture and identity.
As workshop holders and field trippers, we aim to learn collectively, foster connection and build sustainable relationships with host communities.
Born in “Australia” and now based in Lenapehoking/NYC, we welcome story pitches from writers of all stripes.
The trouble with travel writing
A bunch of white male commentators have bemoaned what they consider to be the death of travel literature. Often citing ‘Eat, Pray, Love’ as the nail in the coffin of the genre, they decry the indulgence of the idea that even conventional travel can somehow “heal the soul” and turn what they call a “suburban ninny” into a philosopher.
Of course, we roll our eyes at this misogyny, which is aimed at the popular I-found-myself-overseas narratives written by white women – but let’s not kid ourselves: lots of travel writing has been deeply harmful.
People have been telling tales of their journeys for centuries – unsurprising when you think about the global population’s experiences with itinerancy, mobility and displacement. Take a look at Sa’di Shirazi’s pearls of wisdom in گلستان سعدی from 1258!
But access barriers have always existed: to education, to writing materials, to freedom of movement, to financial resources, to time, to safety, to publishing.
Not only that, but travel writers are far from neutral observers floating through the world. Our histories travel with us, and we are all embedded in systems of power.
Much of the most celebrated travel writing, both classically but also still today, explores themes of discovery, conquest and saviourhood. From Rudyard Kipling to Paul Theroux, Mary Kingsley to Elizabeth Gilbert.
It’s not just the literary stuff: it’s in commercial travel writing too, which frames the world as an exotic playground whilst erasing the past and glossing over exploitative structures that make modern travel possible.
We see it in the travel section of newspapers, we see it in novels, we see it in in-flight magazines. We see it in yoga retreat brochures, we see it in Instagram captions, we see it in guidebooks and tiktok videos.
Movement is determined and structured by power
Recreational travel is an enormous privilege that the vast majority of the world does not have access to. 80% of us will never board a flight.
For some bodies, travel spells freedom. Other bodies face scrutiny, surveillance and exclusion.
Moreover, not all journeys are freely taken. The number of people who’ve been forcibly displaced from their homes and made to travel for necessity is in the hundreds of millions. This will continue to climb.
Though recreational travel may bring money to communities, it’s a double-edged sword, with carbon emissions from flying barely the tip of the melting iceberg. In many places, tourism has grown beyond the bounds of sustainability to the detriment of local people, heritage and ecosystems.
Holidays and the global spread of remote work culture strain local resources and displace the everyday lives of residents. They commodify cultural and spiritual practices, deepen inequality by pushing marginalised groups further to the margins, and come at the cost of environmental and animal welfare, destroying habitats, increasing pollution, and eroding the very communities visitors claim to admire.
So where does this leave travel writing?
Humans have been moving about and telling stories for millennia. Story has the power to connect us, to soothe, to teach, to spur action, to effect change. Journey is all around us – both the physical and the metaphysical: we are cobbled together from it.
Writers are constantly finding new ways of telling stories about movement, place, culture and identity. But much travel writing still needs greater structural awareness.
In the commercial space, we want contributions from locals, migrants, Indigenous people and workers – not just about them. We also want to beyond ethical consumerism.
In a literary sense, we want to see more complex portrayals of people and place. We like to read writing that is thoughtful, that builds relationship, that counters violence, that imagines otherwise.
About our name
One misty afternoon in the alpine moorlands of lutruwita / Tasmania, armed with a bag of Easter eggs, we stepped out from our hut and were happily and unknowingly strolling in the wrong direction. All of sudden, one of us stopped in their tracks.
“You’ve led us astray!” she scolded the other, laughing.
“Astray!!!”
It was instantly decided.
“Ashtray?” some people ask when we tell them what we’re called. Whatever. We like it.
Astray exists to build a borderless community around storytelling and provide a space for writers to share thoughtful, critical views.
Our ethos is a collage of conscious travel, meaningful connection and care. We aim to open people’s minds to fresh perspectives and show them other thinking, other ways of living, other ways of being. We host workshops and field trips in all sorts of places, working closely with local communities, educators and businesses. Astray’s current programming can be found here.
Our month-long writing workshops have been accredited by many universities in Australia, Aotearoa/New Zealand, Canada, the US and the UK (but are not just for students, and not just for people from those countries either).
We strive to work as ethically as possible in all that we do, and are always interested in learning how we can be better, so don’t hesitate to drop us a line if you’d like to chat about it via our contact page.
Astray’s logos were designed by K~SUT STUDIO; and our collages were crafted by Jada De Luca (they’re both witches).
Astray is a storytelling project about the world and the Earth.
As a publication, we seek to contemplate the breadth of human experience and engage in conversation about travel, place, culture and identity.
As workshop holders and field trippers, we aim to learn collectively, foster connection and build sustainable relationships with host communities.
Born in “Australia” and now based in Lenapehoking/NYC, we welcome story pitches from writers of all stripes.
The trouble with travel writing
A bunch of white male commentators have bemoaned what they consider to be the death of travel literature. Often citing ‘Eat, Pray, Love’ as the nail in the coffin of the genre, they decry the indulgence of the idea that even conventional travel can somehow “heal the soul” and turn what they call a “suburban ninny” into a philosopher.
Of course, we roll our eyes at this misogyny, which is aimed at the popular I-found-myself-overseas narratives written by white women – but let’s not kid ourselves: lots of travel writing has been deeply harmful.
People have been telling tales of their journeys for centuries – unsurprising when you think about the global population’s experiences with itinerancy, mobility and displacement. Take a look at Sa’di Shirazi’s pearls of wisdom in گلستان سعدی from 1258!
But access barriers have always existed: to education, to writing materials, to freedom of movement, to financial resources, to time, to safety, to publishing. Not all stories are heard.
Not only that, but travel writers are far from neutral observers floating through the world. Our histories travel with us, and we are all embedded in systems of power.
Much of the most celebrated travel writing, both classically but also still today, explores themes of discovery, conquest and saviourhood, from Rudyard Kipling to Paul Theroux, Mary Kingsley to Elizabeth Gilbert.
It’s not just the literary stuff: it’s in commercial travel writing too, which frames the world as an exotic playground whilst erasing the past and glossing over exploitative structures that make modern travel possible.
We see it in the travel section of newspapers, we see it in novels, we see it in in-flight magazines. We see it in yoga retreat brochures, we see it in Instagram captions, we see it in guidebooks and tiktok videos.
Movement is determined and structured by power
Recreational travel is an enormous privilege that the vast majority of the world does not have access to. 80% of us will never board a flight.
For some bodies, travel spells freedom. Other bodies face scrutiny, surveillance and exclusion.
Moreover, not all journeys are freely taken. The number of people who’ve been forcibly displaced from their homes and made to travel for necessity is in the hundreds of millions. This will continue to climb.
Though recreational travel may bring money to communities, it’s a double-edged sword, with carbon emissions from flying barely the tip of the melting iceberg. In many places, tourism has grown beyond the bounds of sustainability to the detriment of local people, heritage and ecosystems.
Holidays and the global spread of remote work culture strain local resources and displace the everyday lives of residents. They commodify cultural and spiritual practices, deepen inequality by pushing marginalised groups further to the margins, and come at the cost of environmental and animal welfare, destroying habitats, increasing pollution, and eroding the very communities visitors claim to admire.
So where does this leave travel writing?
Humans have been moving about and telling stories for millennia. Story has the power to connect us, to soothe, to teach, to spur action, to effect change. Journey is all around us – both the physical and the metaphysical: we are cobbled together from it.
Writers are constantly finding new ways of telling stories about movement, place, culture and identity. But much travel writing still needs greater structural awareness.
In the commercial space, we want contributions from locals, migrants, Indigenous people and workers – not just about them. We also want to beyond ethical consumerism.
In a literary sense, we want to see more complex portrayals of people and place. We like to read writing that is thoughtful, that builds relationship, that counters violence, that imagines otherwise.
About our name
One misty afternoon in the alpine moorlands of lutruwita / Tasmania, armed with a bag of Easter eggs, we stepped out from our hut and were happily and unknowingly strolling in the wrong direction. All of sudden, one of us stopped in their tracks.
“You’ve led us astray!” she scolded the other, laughing.
“Astray!!!”
It was instantly decided.
“Ashtray?” some people ask when we tell them what we’re called. Whatever. We like it.
Astray exists to build a borderless community around storytelling and provide a space for writers to share thoughtful, critical views.
Our ethos is a collage of conscious travel, meaningful connection and care. We aim to open people’s minds to fresh perspectives and show them other thinking, other ways of living, other ways of being. We host workshops and field trips in all sorts of places, working closely with local communities, educators and businesses. Astray’s current programming can be found here.
Our month-long writing workshops have been accredited by many universities in Australia, Aotearoa/New Zealand, Canada, the US and the UK (but are not just for students, and not just for people from those countries either).
We strive to work as ethically as possible in all that we do, and are always interested in learning how we can be better, so don’t hesitate to drop us a line if you’d like to chat about it via our contact page.
Astray’s logos were designed by K~SUT STUDIO; and our collages were crafted by Jada De Luca (they’re both witches).