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dikran aram boyajian

Dear Miss Rosen: Should I call you Ms? That doesn’t make a lot of sense to me. Maybe it’s my generation (I’m 74) but I think either you’re married, or you’re not. If you’re married, it’s Mrs., and if not, it’s Miss. What’s so bad?

If you don’t believe me that Miss is not offensive, take a look at history. Not that history’s always right. I’ll bet you’ll find some awfully successful Misses. Take a very close look. Then you tell me. I’m waiting. You can let me know what you find any time. And if you don’t agree, don’t worry. I’m a mature man by now. I accept disagreements. I even went once to couples counseling.

So what’s he writing about, I’ll bet you’re wondering. And you’re probably thinking to yourself, a million to one he wrote a book. Well you’re right, and you’re wrong. I wrote the beginning. Not the whole book, because I don’t know if it’s of interest. If anyone’s going to want to read it besides myself. That’s an important question to know the answer to because if they don’t, should I bother? Does a tree fall in the forest if there’s no one around to hear it? My son, who told me about that tree, said yes, but I say no. You need an ear for sound. Otherwise it’s nothing.

I wrote a book about God and the transmigration of ancient souls. You’re probably thinking to yourself, now that’s an unlikely subject for a 74-year-old man to write. Does he have any credentials? Did he study? And what can he possibly know?

All I have to say to that is a lot. I’ll tell you the categories, and you tell me if I’ve covered the subject: Mercy and Love, Joy and Praise, People and God, Dignity and Responsibility, Integrity, Freedom, and Our Ancestors at the Gates of Heaven. And that’s only Volume One (ha! ha!).

Are you interested? Tell me the truth. On the one hand, I think to myself “Who wouldn’t be?” and on the other hand I think, “What am I, kidding?” You tell me. Of course I will pay for your opinion. You’re a professional. I understand what that means. My children too. No opinions without money in advance. So how much?

Jack Green

Dear Jack Green, Who wouldn’t be? What am I kidding? Or, OK I’ll tell you. You can ask for my opinion. Send me the amount that you think your book is worth. That’s up to you. Is it a $5.00 book? $50.00? $500.00? How long is it, by the way? I guess I’ll see for myself, if you send it. Arlette R.

Dear Arlette Rosen,

You’ve heard of any number of bizarre and unique detectives, I’m sure. One-eyed, orchid-growing, feminist, etc. I propose an Armenian mystery series with Dikran Aram Boyajian as hero. He’d be Dikran the Dick. His nickname’s Deeke. A former Orthodox priest, photo-engraver, opera singer, and lighting designer, Dikran sells Oriental rugs. He is short, dark, sexy, suave, and mustachioed. He plays the oud and eats grape leaves twice a day. He is divorced, because divorced detectives seem to have more interesting sex lives. Using his special skills as an Armenian, speaker of a unique language unlike any other in the world, he miraculously finds killers, in 30 days or less. He has never failed. (By the way, none of the killers are Turks. I want to avoid any kind of prejudice, if I can.)

(Dikran is loosely based on an ex-husband of mine, Dikran Latmanjian.) What do you think? Want to see a sample of Dikran in Azerbajan? (Dikran in Bimini, and Dikran in Crimea will follow.) These are perfect holiday books. They are diverting, and they don’t bother anybody. I use descriptions of foreign lands as often as I can.

Yours, VeeJee Smith

Dear VeeJee,

O.K. Send me Dikran. I think I like him. A. Rosen

Dear Arlette,

I’m writing to ask you for inspiration. Is it possible to send?

Here I sit, right on my balcony, which is approximately the size of two very small closets. No winter clothes. On a hazy Philadelphia morning. I can’t see anything from here. The sky is eerie, the air is thick, and even the birds are silent.

I hope you are well. Do you remember that we met once? It was on a plane going to Chapel Hill, North Carolina. You were going to visit relatives. I was too. I’m writing to tell you that, as you suggested, I now write every day.

By the way, I’m sick. I have an awful cold, accompanied by bad sinuses, asthma, bronchitis, and general rhinitis. I didn’t go to work for several days (I am a psychiatric social worker) and I didn’t feel like seeing a doctor. I’m a little better now, but I’m still not inspired.

Writing is very, very hard. You didn’t tell me that. I need a spark. Where does it come from? I can’t just call it up. I have to wait for it to call me. Without this spark, my work is dead.

Maybe because I haven’t felt well, I feel completely and totally uninspired. I want to write, but when I start, the words are just wrong. Emotion is missing. It’s just an exercise. I am stuck.

Can you tell me how to unstick myself?

It was very kind of you to give me your address. I’ve been meaning to write for two years now. I held onto it. And now, I’m putting it to good use. I hope you haven’t moved.

This being stuck happens to me in every area of my life, from child rearing and housework to making love with my husband. I just have to wait it out. Wait for that spark. Do you have any suggestions in this regard?

I suppose I must just believe in the process, and keep writing, knowing that it has to return. I’m including a stamped self-addressed envelope, in case you haven’t saved my address.

Eileen Willis, MSW

Dear Eileen Willis,

I remember your bright pink jogging suit very well. And I saved your recipe for peanut butter pie. (But not your address, by the way.)

About inspiration, and being stuck, I absolutely know what you mean. It comes and goes. Here’s a list of what I do, when I feel stuck. Which is pretty often, by the way.

1. Walk in a circle seven times, counterclockwise.

2. Say the words “O Wa Ta Goo Siam” a few times, very fast.

3. Lie on the floor. Palms up, head to one side, knees bent apart. Legs open as wide as my hips. I breathe very slowly, and imagine I am a bird. Sometimes a tree is easier.

4. Sing. I don’t know too many songs, so I usually resort to a simple song from my childhood. “Row Row Row Your Boat” or “Frere Jacques,” or a Hebrew school song like “Shalom Haverim.”

5. Leave what I’m trying to do and do something else. That’s probably the best idea. At least I’m not just sitting there frustrated. It seems obvious and simple, but sometimes you have to imagine a voice in your head saying, “Go outside.”

6. Write the worst sentence you can think of. This often helps me. We live in fear of that sentence. How stupid and terrible it could possibly be. “It happened one cold night in a small town in Oklahoma.” See? It’s never really that bad.

7. Write a list. It doesn’t matter about the subject. My own particular favorite is to write down the first ten words in your head. Keep these lists. They’ll give you an idea of your moods. Sometimes, too, the words have stories in them.

8. Try to draw. This helps me because I am such a bad artist, I’m relieved to go back to language.

Good luck to you, Eileen. Don’t stop. That’s probably the best advice I can give. A.