I used to blog about everything, leaving no crisis unused. For this new venture in life, I wanted to focus just on writing. However, as I watch the news unfold from the United States, and around the world, I am drawn to the idea that we simply have no or very limited empathy left in us. What is a writer to do?
The news of Charlie Kirk’s assassination on September 10, 2025, at Utah Valley University sent shockwaves through an already polarized America. A single gunshot, fired from a rooftop, ended the life of a 31-year-old conservative activist known for his fiery rhetoric and unapologetic defense of his beliefs. The tragedy, however, was not just in the act itself but in the societal response that followed—a chilling reflection of our collective loss of empathy. From the right, cries of “this is war” have erupted, framing the shooting as a battle cry in an escalating culture war. From the left, some have openly celebrated Kirk’s death, with social media posts on platforms like X reveling in the demise of a figure they despised. Both reactions, in their own way, reveal a troubling truth: we are a society increasingly incapable of seeing the humanity in those we disagree with.
As writers—particularly those of us drawn to the nuanced, introspective craft of literary fiction—this moment demands we confront an urgent question: What is our duty in a time of such profound division? How can we, through our work, resist the dehumanization that fuels both the “war” rhetoric and the gleeful celebrations of loss? The answer lies in empathy—not as a sentimental platitude but as a radical act of imagination that writers are uniquely equipped to wield.
The Erosion of Empathy
The shooting of Charlie Kirk, a polarizing figure whose rhetoric often inflamed tensions, has become a mirror held up to our fractured society. The right’s response, exemplified by posts on X declaring “this is war” and calls for vengeance, reduces a complex tragedy to a rallying cry for further division. It’s a language that thrives on dehumanizing the “other,” casting opponents as enemies to be defeated rather than people with their own fears, hopes, and contradictions. Meanwhile, the left’s response—at least in its most extreme corners—has been equally disturbing. X posts celebrating Kirk’s death, some with glib references to “Helldivers 2” (a video game linked to markings on the bullet casings), reveal a callousness that dismisses the loss of a human life because of ideological disagreement. Both sides, in their refusal to mourn or reflect, betray a shared failure: the inability to imagine the pain of those who are not “us.”
We cannot forget Ukraine, Palestine, and other areas of conflict around the world. Or the school shooting in Colorado occurring approximately the same time as Kirk’s death.
This erosion of empathy is not new, but it has reached a fever pitch. Social media, with its echo chambers and performative outrage, amplifies our worst impulses, rewarding snark and vitriol over understanding. The 24-hour news cycle thrives on spectacle, not introspection. And in this environment, the act of killing—whether physical or rhetorical—becomes easier when we stop seeing people as people. Kirk, to his supporters, was a hero; to his detractors, a villain. But he was also a son, a friend, a person with a life cut short. The inability to hold space for that complexity is where we, as a society, are failing.
The Writer’s Role: Rebuilding the Human
Literary writers have always been architects of empathy. Through the slow, deliberate work of crafting characters, we invite readers into lives unlike their own. We ask them to inhabit the minds of the flawed, the contradictory, the unlikeable—to see the world through eyes that might otherwise be dismissed. In this moment, when society seems to revel in division, writers have a duty to resist the pull of tribalism and to rebuild the human in our stories.
What does this look like in practice? It means creating characters who are not caricatures. The conservative firebrand in your novel should not be a one-dimensional villain, nor should the progressive activist be a saintly archetype. Instead, they should be messy, human, driven by fears and desires that transcend ideology. It means writing scenes that force readers to confront the discomfort of understanding someone they might instinctively reject. A story about a family divided by politics, for example, could explore the pain of a mother who loves her son despite his radical views, or a friend who grapples with the betrayal of a peer’s violent act. These stories don’t resolve neatly; they don’t preach. They simply ask readers to feel the weight of another’s humanity.
This work is not easy. It requires writers to confront their own biases, to resist the temptation to score points or pander to an audience. It demands that we listen—truly listen—to voices we disagree with, not to argue but to understand. A writer who can capture the inner life of a character who cheers Kirk’s death, or one who cries “this is war,” without judgment or agenda, is doing something revolutionary: they are reminding us that empathy is not agreement but an act of imagination.
The Duty of the Writer
In times of crisis, writers have always been called to bear witness. But our role is not just to document the chaos; it is to offer a way through it. The shooting of Charlie Kirk and its aftermath—war cries from one side, celebrations from the other—are symptoms of a society that has forgotten how to grieve together, how to see each other as more than enemies. Literary writers, with our ability to craft stories that linger in the gray areas of human experience, have a unique responsibility to counter this.
Our duty is to write characters who challenge readers to feel, not just think. To create narratives that refuse the simplicity of “us vs. them.” To remind our readers that even in a world that feels like a battlefield, every person is a story—complex, contradictory, and worthy of being seen. Empathy is not a cure for division, but it is a start. And in a time when society seems intent on tearing itself apart, that start is nothing short of a rebellion.
As writers, let us take up that rebellion. Let us write stories that ask us to imagine the unimaginable: the humanity of those we’ve been taught to hate. In doing so, we might just help our readers—and ourselves—find a way back to each other.
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