There are moments when I sit at my computer, fingers hovering over the keyboard, searching for an English word that simply doesn’t exist. How do you translate the Armenian word, “մարդկայինություն” (mardkayinutyun), into a fantasy novel? The closest English equivalent might be “humanity” or “humaneness,” but it carries deeper layers, a profound sense of what it means to be truly, compassionately human in a way that embraces both individual dignity and collective responsibility. Or the Armenian word, “խորհուրդ” (khorhurd), which means both “advice” and “mystery.” It’s the idea that wisdom often comes wrapped in riddles or deeper truths.

When I weave Armenian elements into my fantasy worlds, I’m not just translating words, I’m translating entire ways of seeing and understanding the world. For example, the concept of “բարև” (barev), is a simple greeting meaning “hello.” But the root word “բարի” (bari) means “good.” So every time Armenians greet each other, we’re literally saying “good” or wishing goodness upon one another. How do you capture that cultural philosophy in a fantasy setting without stopping the narrative to explain? In Light Weaver, when my characters greet each other during a cultural celebration, I try to infuse their interactions with this underlying wish for each other’s wellbeing, letting the cultural value shine through action rather than explanation.

In Light Weaver, I also tried to capture the concept of “karot.” It’s the ache of missing something you can’t quite remember, a longing for a place or time that exists just beyond the edge of memory. It’s what I felt sitting at those Armenian gatherings as a teenager, homesick for something I’d never actually experienced. In Armenian culture, this feeling runs deep, connected to our collective memory of loss and displacement. When I used the word “karot” for my fantasy world, I was trying to give English readers access to this uniquely Armenian emotional experience, that bittersweet yearning that shapes so much of how we move through the world.

Writing fantasy also allows me to create new words that echo Armenian speech without requiring readers to learn another language. What I’ve discovered is that the untranslatable isn’t actually untranslatable in fiction. All you need is creativity, patience, and a willingness to build bridges between languages through story, character, and emotion. Every time I convey an Armenian concept using English words, I’m sharing a way of seeing the world that might otherwise be lost in translation.

Maybe that’s what all storytelling really is: turning what words can’t capture into what hearts can feel.