Most of us have looked at the events, disasters, cruelty, and upheavals in the world and wondered how we can make a difference. We donate what we can to causes we care about; we volunteer with organizations doing good in the world; we educate ourselves and those around us about how to turn this particular ship around before it goes down in the blazing light of climate change and a thousand wildfires.

I’ve heard people say that art—especially art with a capital A—should stay out of the fray. What we do is for the ages. What we do is intellectual, or avant-garde, or sensual. Which is all, to my mind, utter rot. We are the ones who need to cry out at injustice, remind people of their shared humanity, carry the torch of sanity to another generation. No one can look at Picasso’s Guernica and not be moved.

So why aren’t we all similarly engaged?

Those of us who write fiction have a particular advantage—and, one might say, obligation—in that we have the ability to get inside people’s heads—our characters, of course, but also through them into the minds and hearts of our readers. So how do we use our art to make a difference in the world? How do we show the layered complexities of situations and allow our readers to empathize with those in need?

If you remember the old Charles Schultz cartoons, you’ll remember that Charlie Brown occasionally mused that, “I like mankind; it’s people I can’t stand.” That’s rarely been more true than today. Everyone will agree that humanity is a good thing; but most people, in their heart of hearts, believe certain parts of humanity are of lesser importance than others.

We can change that.

Writing characters that are real, flawed, passionate, and three-dimensional is a good place to start. Racists have been known to change their minds when they actually meet people of other races and find—surprise, surprise—that they’re not actually all that different. Once homophobes get over their assumption that every gay person has designs on them, they can relax and enjoy a gay person’s company. I could go on. It’s one of the reasons I set one of my mystery series in Provincetown, where a great many people come to vacation or even live because of oppression they’ve experienced elsewhere: in my books, readers meet people—not trans people, gay people, Muslim people, Black people, but rather people named Barry. Angie. Karen. Readers sit down to dinner with them, see them struggle and laugh and cry. It’s within the context of a mystery, so there’s no sense of pointing at people; the reader is along for the ride without any sermonizing or criticism.

One of the joys of reading is the opportunity to live alongside someone else for a time. Hear their thoughts. Be affected by their questions. Wonder why they did one thing and not another. And it’s nearly impossible to do that while still hating them as part of a group. They’re not that much different from the group; they’re just the one you go to know. And at the end of the day, they’re not much different from you.

Good fiction reveals depth. It reveals nuance. It encourages empathy. It opens up worlds the reader has never experienced… and we are all changed by our experiences, even when they’re within the pages of a book.