In the summer of 1975, I was a shy, awkward girl obsessed with the Little House on the Prairie series by Laura Ingalls Wilder. I couldn’t get enough of her stories about 19-th century settler life.

Her books were my gateway into historical fiction.

Wilder’s writing opened my eyes to the hardships that people experienced on the frontier. She introduced me to homesteading women who faced life-and-death struggles and who diligently, with resourcefulness and hope, safeguarded their families.

She also showed me examples of quiet strength, resilience, self-advocacy, inquisitiveness and how individuality and community can co-exist. She immersed me in her characters’ world and made me care about them.

I recall the thrill of being allowed (finally!) to borrow historical fiction from the adult section of the public library. Those books, which mostly transported me to old England and pre-Civil War America, weren’t solely forms of entertainment and escapism.

Through reading historical fiction, I time-traveled to different eras and countries to experience other cultures. Authors introduced me to the ugly “isms” —classism, sexism, and racism—that I was blind to as a young rural white girl.

I believe that reading historical fiction grows our empathy for people who carry intergenerational trauma because of harm done by colonialism and patriarchal systems. Whose heart can remain closed after reading novels that explore slavery, the residential school experience, genocide or the oppression of class systems?

There’s a bounty of fiction today that gives insight into the histories of people from around the world.

Although these storylines can be difficult to read, they prompt us to reflect on the preciousness of all life, the destruction of greed and war, and the consequences of hatred and othering. They also remind us of generations past who survived horrendous circumstances, then found the strength to thrive and rediscover pockets of joy.

Historical stories ask us to consider the grey areas in life. They are a means of walking in someone else’s shoes—through a war, for instance—as they grapple with making impossible decisions. We sit alongside characters as they consider different courses of action and their implications. We come to understand the inevitability of their best bad choice, which, before having read their story, we might have judged negatively. Our minds are further opened when authors show us multiple characters’ perspectives on the same issue.

The ability to consider all sides of an argument is a virtue to cultivate.

Some readers are reluctant to choose historical fiction. They equate stories of the past with dry history lectures given by middle- or high-school teachers from their youth. Maybe years ago, they encountered off-putting novels that concerned themselves only with building mythologies around straight white British men from history.

Today, historical fiction offers new narratives, so different from the historical record which suppresses the points of view of women and people who are economically challenged, racialized,  queer or trans.

There are contemporary writers of historical fiction who question long-believed narratives about the past.

Consider reading feminist historical fiction, in which women face true-to-life challenges that they overcome in realistic ways. We write about women characters who exercise agency and claim traditionally male spaces. Our novels are intersectional, including characters of different genders, ages, ethnicities and abilities, for example.

Historical fiction is the backstory of who we are today. These stories reflect the complexity of human experiences across time so we can learn about each other in the past and empathize with one another today. They equip us to think critically and compassionately before forming judgment.

This, my friends, is at the core of why I write historical fiction novels.