(and Why I’ll Never Write to Please Expectations)

There’s a particular kind of irony in being told how to tell your own story. I’ve spent years as an anthropologist there, an entrepreneur, and a sand sculptor—yes, you read that right; my first real “career” involved earning a living with a gigantic blanket on the beach, collecting coins (and the occasional sandwich) from tourists.

My mother, who once dreamed I’d become a judge at The Hague, still hasn’t quite forgiven me for swapping international law for sand and sunburns. But then, I’ve never been much for fulfilling expectations, least of all other people’s.
So it’s almost comical that, after all this, I found myself second-guessing the way I wrote about my adventures in Naples while researching for CYcrds™.

The world outside was (and is) a circus of political absurdity, a constant churn of outrage and disappointment. Hence, I turned to storytelling not just as an escape but as a form of resistance—a way to reclaim meaning, humour, and beauty from life. I wanted to write something that felt real, not performative, something that made me laugh, ache, and remember why I started travelling and asking questions in the first place.

Then came the feedback: a student with a book club, earnest and astute, pointed out that my first chapters risked veering into “tourist fantasy,” with conversations that were “pleasant” and “overly polished” and emotions that bordered on cliché. The implication was clear: write less like yourself and more like what the genre expects. Make it grittier, rougher, more “authentic”—as if authenticity is a formula you can reverse-engineer from Goodreads reviews.

For a moment, I considered it. After all, who doesn’t want to be read, understood, or applauded? But then I remembered: I didn’t spend my twenties sculpting sand because I wanted to impress anyone. I didn’t found CYcrds to fit a mould. I certainly didn’t go to Naples, Tallinn, or the so many places life took me to satisfy someone else’s idea of what a “real” adventure should look like.

If I’ve learned anything from a life spent dodging expectations, and following my heart and curiosity, it’s that the only stories worth telling are the ones that make you feel something—messy, embarrassing, joyful, or raw. The world is already full of scripts and roles we’re supposed to play. Why add another layer of artifice?

So here’s my answer to the well-meaning student, the book club, and anyone else who wonders why my stories sometimes sound like sitcoms and sometimes like confessions: I write them because they’re mine (and the gods know I have some really twisted sense of humour ). Because the only thing more exhausting than living up to expectations is writing for them.

So, if you ever find yourself on a beach, watching someone build a castle out of sand with nothing but their hands (and a knife, bucket and spade), toss a coin on the blanket. Chances are, you’ll get a better story than you bargained for.

May adventure and meaning find us,

Irena Phaedra

P.S. But I see your true colors
Shining through
I see your true colors
And that’s why I love you
So don’t be afraid to let them show
Your true colors
True colors are beautiful
Like a rainbow