The email sits in my inbox for three days before I can bring myself to respond. A reader has written to thank me for Light Weaver, saying it’s the first time they’ve seen Armenian culture represented in fantasy. Their words fill me with joy and terror in equal measure. Joy because I’ve succeeded in creating something meaningful. Terror because of the weight those words carry, the responsibility of being one of so few Armenian voices in English literature in a genre I love.

When I first started writing fantasy, I told myself I was just telling stories. But as Light Weaver found its way into the world, and as I finish the first book of Sea Weaver, I’ve begun to understand that I’m not just writing fiction, I’m carrying the hopes and histories of an entire diaspora community on my shoulders. Suddenly, every choice feels magnified. Did I represent Armenian culture accurately enough? Am I reinforcing stereotypes, or breaking them? What if I get something wrong? What if my story becomes someone’s only window into Armenian experience?

I’m learning to navigate the delicate balance between authenticity and creative freedom. My work isn’t a cultural guidebook, or a perfect representation of Armenian traditions and values. I want to make my stories accessible to general audiences. So I’ve had to find my own path between these expectations, honoring my heritage while still crafting stories that work as fantasy novels.

The responsibility extends beyond just getting cultural details right. My characters might be some readers’ first encounter with Armenian names, traditions, or perspectives. The villain I create could shape how someone thinks about Armenian people. The heroine’s journey might become someone’s understanding of Armenian values. This knowledge sits with me as I write, a constant reminder that representation is never just about the individual story. It’s about the larger world view.

But there’s also incredible power in this position. When I weave Armenian mythology into my fantasy worlds, I’m not just entertaining readers. I’m preserving and sharing cultural knowledge that might otherwise remain hidden to general audiences. And hopefully, I’m helping my Armenian readers see themselves reflected in genres where they’ve been near-invisible.

The challenge becomes even more complex when writing for a diaspora audience. Armenian readers in Los Angeles might have different cultural experiences than those in Beirut, Paris, or Yerevan itself. The traditions I grew up with might not match the ones preserved in other communities. How do I honor this diversity while still creating a coherent fictional world? How do I acknowledge that there’s no single “authentic” Armenian experience without losing the specificity that makes representation meaningful?

Maybe perfect representation is impossible, and that’s okay. My goal isn’t to capture every aspect of Armenian experience. It’s to tell one story, authentically and with love, that might open doors for other stories to follow. So I will continue to write fantasy novels I wished I could have read as a teenager searching for herself in the pages of epic adventures.

Every time I sit down to write, I carry with me the voices of Armenian grandmothers who preserved our stories through impossible circumstances, of diaspora communities who refused to let our culture disappear, of young Armenian readers who are still searching for themselves in the pages of novels. I write for all of them, knowing that in creating one small story, I’m contributing to a much larger one—the ongoing tale of Armenian resilience, creativity, and hope.