1. What
inspired you to write this book?
The
inspiration for THE MEANING OF THE
MURDER stems from one of the most pivotal and haunting moments of my life:
9/11. I was in the Bronx with my three-year-old daughter—far enough from Ground
Zero to be physically safe, yet close enough to feel the weight of what was
happening. The eerie silence, the faint scent of something unnatural in the
air, the fighter jets streaking across the sky—all of it made me realize how
vulnerable we really were. Perhaps I was one of the so-called “naïve
Americans,” but for the first time in my life, I felt the threat of war. We are
under attack, I thought, and acknowledging this gave me a deep, unsettling
helplessness. There was nothing I could do except protect my daughter and
shield her from the images on television. Meanwhile, I knew that men and women
in uniform—first responders—were rushing toward danger.
That
moment made me think of my father. During World War II, he volunteered as a
paratrooper—not for the combat pay, but because he wanted to confront evil
directly. He didn’t want to sit on the sidelines. On 9/11, I understood that
urge. I wanted to take action. But how? That question stayed with me, and over
time, it evolved into the driving force behind my novel.
2.
What exactly is it about — and who is it written for?
At its core, THE MEANING OF THE MURDER is about what
happens when ordinary people are thrust into extraordinary circumstances—when a
family suddenly finds itself caught in the vast, unrelenting machinery
of the global war on terror. The story delves into the uneasy boundary
between criminal acts we recognize—murder, corruption, betrayal—and the
far more complex, often invisible forces of political violence. Though I didn’t
write this novel as a direct response to recent events, the questions it wrestles with have only grown more urgent.
The
reality of terrorism is that it blurs boundaries. Is it war? Yes—but not the
kind with uniforms, frontlines, or declarations. Is it crime? Absolutely—but
not for money, power, or revenge. Terrorism isn’t about stolen goods or turf
wars; it’s about ideology. It’s strategic, symbolic—meant to send a message,
not just commit a crime. That’s why both the soldier and the cop find
themselves on the front lines.
The fight
against terrorism also involves banking—tracing financial flows to disrupt
funding networks. This further complicates the boundary between military, law
enforcement, and civilian life. And that’s the premise for my new novel.
The
Meaning of the Murder is about a Jewish family that unknowingly becomes entangled in
terrorism when the father, a bank compliance officer, discovers that his bank
is violating OFAC laws and funding terrorists in the Middle East. He alerts the
bank’s top brass, but they ignore him. After struggling with the conflict
between his position as a fully assimilated member of his professional
community and his moral obligations as a man and a Jew, he turns whistleblower
and goes to the DOJ. The night before his deposition, he disappears—leaving
behind a wife and three daughters.
Eliana
Golden, the middle child, was thirteen when her father disappeared. Years
later, after surprising her family by joining the NYPD, she meets a mysterious
and alluring soldier—a man who is far more dangerous than Eliana, and everyone
except those at the highest and most secret levels of the U.S. government,
understands. And he knows exactly what happened to her father.
What
follows is a journey into the depths of America’s covert war against terrorism,
but for all its geopolitical backdrop, the novel is ultimately intimate. It’s
about love: between a father and a daughter, between sisters bound together by
loss, and between a husband and wife trying to hold on to each other in the
face of fear and doubt. These relationships aren’t sentimental—they’re fraught,
tested, sometimes fraying. But they’re also resilient. I wanted to explore how
love endures, not as a shield against violence, but as a reason to keep going
in the midst of it. That’s the emotional core behind this book—and, I think,
the deepest reason I felt compelled to write it.
Who is
the book written for? I see crime fiction as a genre not just of suspense, but
of moral inquiry. I want to tell stories where crime is not only a puzzle to be
solved, but a crucible that reshapes those who encounter it. Rather than
focusing primarily on solving crimes, I want to confront the psychological and
moral consequences of those crimes. For me, crime fiction is not only about
bringing wrongdoers to justice but about reckoning with the cost of justice
itself and the ways it changes those who pursue it.
My ideal reader is
someone who wants a crime story that pushes the boundaries of the genre—someone
who craves suspense but also complexity, who reads not just for the
"solution" to the mystery, but for the questions that remain.
3.
What do you hope readers will get out of reading your book?
I hope
readers will come away reflecting on the complex relationship between love and
violence, and be moved by the notion that violence stains not just the
perpetrator but the whole of society. Violence is never just an isolated act;
it ripples outward, altering everyone it touches.
Many
crime novels focus on the procedural—the forensics, the clues, the pursuit of
justice as a linear path. But for me, crime fiction is not merely about solving
a mystery; it is about reckoning with what violence does to the human soul. A
crime is a rupture, a wound in the moral order. What interests me most is not
only the pursuit of justice but the transformation that takes place in its
wake. What does it mean to confront the worst in human nature? And what
possibilities for redemption exist when we do?
4.
How did you decide on your book’s title and cover design?
The
book’s title comes from the epigraph that opens the novel—a passage from Viktor
Frankl’s Man’s Search for Meaning. Frankl, who survived Auschwitz,
published the book in 1946. I first read it in college, returned to it after
9/11, and again during the pandemic. Each time, it struck a deeper chord. The
popular takeaway is that meaning can be found even in the face of suffering.
But what moves me most is Frankl’s more subtle insight: we shouldn’t ask what
the meaning of life is—we should recognize that life is asking us. Meaning
isn’t something abstract to be discovered; it’s something we answer for. It’s
personal, situational, and inescapably moral. Our lives, Frankl writes, are
questions to which we must respond.
The
three sisters in my novel each struggle to make sense of what happened after their father
disappeared. One sister represses the trauma; one is paralyzed by it; and one
becomes obsessed with it. Each, in her own way, is trying to make meaning. For
each, the meaning of the murder is different.
That, for me, is
the core of the book: meaning is shaped not only by what happens, but by who we
are and how we respond. The relationship between moral responsibility and
personal identity is not theoretical—it’s immediate, intimate, and unfolding.
As for the cover
design—my talented publisher gets all the credit. All I did was say, “Yes!”
5.
What advice or words of wisdom do you have for fellow writers – other than
run!?
When
I was a young writer in my twenties, hungry for advice, I
read every issue
of The Paris Review’s
Writers at Work interviews. It was like visiting the Baseball Hall of
Fame—Faulkner, Hemingway, Eliot, Pound, Beckett, Joan Didion, Toni Morrison,
Margaret Atwood. The wisdom of the greats, right there on the page.
So,
whose advice did I take? A little
from everyone, I suppose. But mostly
from Saul Bellow. He once said, “To be a writer
one learns to live like one... The main business
is to find the most appropriate and stimulating equilibrium.”
For me, that equilibrium has involved a version of the biblical
passage: “…pay unto Caesar that which
is Caesar’s, and unto God that which is God’s…” Hence, I’ve written for hire—journalism,
PR, advertising. And I’ve graded thousands of student papers as a teacher. But
beneath all that, I’ve held onto another of Bellow’s insights: “You are engaged,
as a writer should be, in transforming yourself... There’s nothing that counts really except this
transforming action of the soul.” This is a more mysterious bit of advice, but
equally important to me.
What
I think Bellow means by a “transforming action of the soul” is that writing
seriously and steadily cultivates certain human qualities:
a sensitivity to life, a capacity for wonder, an appreciation for complexity and paradox. I think Bellow’s
point is that this part of the creative process
counts perhaps even more than
the success or failure of the finished product.
Committing deeply
to the process of writing
has meant, for me, finding ways to write regardless of what else I have going on in my life. I take the “stimulating equilibrium” idea of Bellow’s
to mean that writing should never be more important than “living.” The two have to coexist. So, for example,
I learned to write in short
spurts: fifteen minutes
before bed, 30 minutes in a doctor’s
office, or, one of
my favorites, forty minutes on a bus from the Bronx to Manhattan. I was probably
the only guy on the bus hoping for bad traffic!
But I don’t
want to joke about this too
much. Finding the “balance
between writing and living” is not easy, and I’ve struggled. There
are times when I’ve binge-written,
sitting at my desk for twelve-hour
stretches straight through the night, barely
registering the passage
of time. And, to be honest, I’ve struggled with the role of alcohol in all of this, too.
Overall, I think it’s a fair analogy to compare writing
with physical exercise. If you exercise
carefully and consistently, your body will get stronger. On the other
hand, if you do it carelessly, there will be little benefit—and you might
hurt yourself. Writing,
when done with the right “equilibrium,” changes you—not just as a writer, but as a person. Bellow’s advice has helped me to keep my eye on that part of the process: the
“transforming action of the soul.”
6. What trends in the book
world do you see—and where do you think the book publishing industry is
heading?
Fewer people seem to read—or at least that’s how it
feels. I don’t know if that’s objectively true, but with all the modern
technology—streaming platforms, social media, video games—the competition for
attention is fierce. And yet, the need for stories remains. That’s what I focus
on.
Stories are fundamental to being human. The technology
changes. The formats shift. The cultural noise gets louder. But our need for
narrative—our drive to make sense of experience through story—doesn’t go away.
It’s how we locate meaning. It’s how we reckon with joy, grief, identity, loss.
Stories are how we answer, in one form or another, the question: what does it
mean to be alive?
I find the rise of audiobooks especially fascinating. In
one sense, it’s the most modern way we “read”—but it also feels like a return
to the origins of storytelling: the spoken word. Long before books, we
listened. A well-read audiobook can be incredibly moving. A quick
recommendation: Meryl Streep reading John Cheever. It’s a master class in tone,
texture, and restraint.
Other trends are more disruptive. AI is advancing
rapidly, and while I don’t believe an algorithm can replicate the depth of
human storytelling, I do think we’re entering a period when writers will need
to articulate more clearly what makes their work distinctly human. That’s a
challenge—but also an opportunity.
At the same time, the growth of independent publishing
has made the landscape more diverse, more accessible, and more dynamic. Writers
can now reach readers directly in ways that were once impossible. But that also
means more noise in the system. As the gatekeepers shift, the responsibility of
curation falls more and more to readers themselves. That’s liberating—but also
daunting.
Genre itself is evolving. I see more and more writers
blending forms—true crime with memoir, literary fiction with suspense,
thrillers with social commentary. And I think that’s a good thing. Readers are
open to complexity. The lines between “entertainment” and “literary value” are
less rigid than they once were. For those of us drawn to stories that grapple
with moral ambiguity and emotional depth, that’s an encouraging sign.
In the end, I don’t know where the publishing industry is
heading. But I believe the core of storytelling—the need to understand our
lives through narrative—isn’t going anywhere. The medium may change, but the
impulse is eternal.
7.
Were there experiences in your personal life or career that came in handy when
writing this book?
THE MEANING OF THE
MURDER is grounded in two parts of my professional life: my years covering
crime as a journalist, and my experience serving as an Auxiliary Police Officer
with the NYPD. Both shaped the book in ways I didn’t fully realize until the
writing was underway.
First,
being a journalist. It’s a wonderful way to be “out in the world”—asking questions,
chasing facts. On some days, I stood outside courtrooms, furiously scribbling
quotes. Other days, I knocked on doors hoping the next of kin would give me a
comment. I once trailed a probation officer making surprise home visits.
Sometimes I went to the city morgue, and sometimes the state prison. I listened
to victims, suspects, cops, attorneys, and mothers who would never again see
their sons. And always—always—the job was to get the facts. A reporter,
especially on the crime beat, lives by verification. No speculation. No filling
in emotional blanks. It wasn’t my job to interpret a suspect’s expression or
wonder what a mother whispered at her child’s grave. If I didn’t hear it, see
it, or record it, it didn’t go in the story.
As a novelist, the
work is very different. I am free to focus on the inner life—and to use my
imagination. Instead of seeking only the facts, instead of asking for a quote
to capture what a person feels, I can step directly into another’s point of
view and imagine what this person might be feeling right now. This power of the
imagination—which makes empathy possible—is exhilarating, and deeply
humanizing. In a certain sense, the craft of writing fiction is similar to what
many actors say about their craft: the goal isn’t to perform a character but to
inhabit them—to discover what it feels like to live inside another skin. That’s
what fiction allows. It’s not about impersonation; it’s about immersion. And
when it works, you’re no longer inventing a life—you’re listening to it.
I still recall the
moment many years ago in my journalism career when this distinction between the
factual world of the journalist and the imaginative world of the novelist
became painfully clear. I was interviewing Richard M. Daley, then mayor of
Chicago, about his approach to crime. His father, who had served as mayor for
twenty-one consecutive years, had been a famous “machine politician” known for
his blatant practice of patronage and exchange of favors. As if to distance
himself from his father’s legacy, the younger Daley had recently hired a team of
squeaky-clean lawyers from elite schools to serve as city attorneys. The
interview generated a successful article, but one detail that intrigued me
never made it into print. The entire time we talked, the mayor was compulsively
chewing gum—one piece after another, discarding each after only a minute or
two. He went through an entire pack during our conversation. I never asked him
about it because it wasn’t relevant to the article. But I couldn’t stop
wondering—was this gum-chewing a nervous habit? A coping mechanism? Something
entirely mundane like a bad taste in your mouth? That’s the kind of question
journalism doesn’t always have room for, but fiction does.
The novelist can
embrace ambiguity, follow an emotional thread even when it leads somewhere
uncomfortable. But this is important: the gears shift in both directions. I’ve
been writing fiction now for many years, and the more time I spend in fiction’s
imaginative interior, the more fascinated I become with exterior forces—the
systems, pressures, and institutions that shape what people do. That interplay
between inner and outer is at the heart of THE MEANING OF THE MURDER.
My work as an
Auxiliary Police Officer shaped the book, too. I became an APO for a mix of reasons—some
lighthearted, some deeply meaningful. On the lighthearted side: I thought it
would be cool. I already knew cops from my time as a crime reporter, many of
them were good friends. They were funny, adventurous, and full of great
stories. I figured spending time in a police precinct would be a kick.
Then
there’s the uniform. In New York City, Auxiliary Officers wear nearly identical
uniforms to regular officers, with only small distinctions in our patch and
badge. We don’t carry firearms, but we do wear duty belts with radios and
handcuffs, and we wear ballistic vests just like the regular police. Most
civilians don’t notice the difference. The way people interact with you when
they think you’re a cop is fascinating. I’ve had people thank me for being
present at a bank or subway entrance purely because they see the uniform. Once,
while stationed outside a synagogue, a longtime neighbor looked me right in the
face and didn’t recognize me. She simply saw “a cop” and said, thank you for
being here. She wasn’t thanking me she was thanking the uniform.
That
moment connects to the deeper reason I became an Auxiliary: to help. The role
expands the NYPD’s presence, serving as the “eyes and ears” of regular
officers. While we don’t investigate crimes, our training covers penal law,
police science, defensive tactics, first aid, and arrest procedures. We can
only make an arrest for a crime that occurs in our presence. But for me, the
most meaningful part is bridging the gap between law enforcement and civilians.
Many people only encounter police in tense or negative situations: a traffic
ticket, a crime scene. But as an Auxiliary, I interact with people in everyday
moments—walking to work, shopping, attending a parade. When I put on the
uniform, I create an opportunity for someone to experience a police officer as
polite, approachable, and respectful.
That
idea—bridging two worlds—is central to the novel. THE MEANING OF THE MURDER explores what happens when an ordinary,
law-abiding family finds itself caught in the global war on terror. My
experience in uniform gave me a firsthand understanding of how people perceive
authority, how trust is built—or broken—and how quickly the line between safety
and fear can blur. Those themes run through my novel, shaping its characters
and moral dilemmas.
Without
my experience working as a crime journalist and volunteering as an Auxiliary
Police Officer, I could never have written this book. Those experiences gave me both the
outer scaffolding of the story and the inner questions that animate it.
8. How
would you describe your writing style? Which writers or books is your writing
similar to?
Describing one’s
own style is tricky—readers often experience it differently than the writer
intends. That said, I’ve been told that my first novel, Moments of Doubt, evoked a “Jewish Holden Caulfield,” and
that it was written “in the darkly comic tradition of Saul Bellow and Philip
Roth.” My new novel, The Meaning of the
Murder,
is quite different. One early reader said it reminded them of Richard Price—a
writer I admire deeply.
If I had to define
my own style, I’d say I’m drawn to the tension between literary and genre
fiction. That’s where I tend to live: in the space between emotional depth and
narrative momentum. I want prose with soul and stories with velocity. Some days
that balance tilts one way, some days the other.
As for influence,
I read widely—books are like food, and I need a balanced diet. A master like
William Faulkner is one of the essential nutrients, so to speak. His ability to
penetrate the mysterious inner life remains unmatched. Absalom, Absalom!
continues to be a touchstone for me, even with its famously challenging style.
At the other end
of the spectrum, I find the well-crafted plots of popular writers like John
Grisham and Gregg Hurwitz equally essential. The Firm, and Orphan X
are, in their own way, tremendous achievements—precise, propulsive, and deeply
satisfying.
Then there’s the
question of subject matter. The Jewish American experience is the story I was
born into, and that makes writers like Saul Bellow and Philip Roth especially
meaningful to me.
But inspiration isn’t
the same as identification. I don’t feel particularly at home in any one
tradition. I’m suspicious of fixed camps—literary vs. commercial, highbrow vs.
accessible. That restlessness probably shapes how I write and how I read.
There’s another
way to talk about “style,” though—and that’s through what some people call a
writer’s “crutch” or “tic.” I don’t love those terms—they sound
pathological—but the idea is worth exploring. Every writer has signature
patterns, whether driven by instinct, obsession, or craft.
Consider the
opening of Hemingway’s famous story The Killers:
The door of Henry’s lunch-room opened and two men came in. They sat down at
the counter.
“What’s yours?” George asked them.
“I don’t know,” one of the men said.
“What do you want to eat, Al?”
“I don’t know,” said Al. “I don’t know what I want to eat.”
Is this
Hemingway’s “tic”? Or is it an effective repetition of simple, short,
declarative phrases for rhythm and emphasis? Is his famously minimalist style a
“crutch”? Or does this form of understatement serve the content of this story,
in which violence and trauma exist beneath a container of restraint?
Or consider this
passage from Saul Bellow’s Herzog:
What is this curious vanity of mind? Why do we want to be kings over all
things? Because it is not enough to be good or wise or witty or brave. You must
understand everything and govern everything. You must have your hand on the
rudder and steer the whole world.
This is a classic
Bellow moment, in which a single character’s emotional state becomes a stage
for civilizational self-examination. Is it a “tic?” Indeed, Bellow often uses
rhetorical questions to push past the narrative and digress into moral or
philosophical anxiety. And his “crutch,” if we must use the term, might be
described as the loquacious, self-interrogating male intellectual.
Now, I know
readers who dislike Hemingway or Bellow precisely because of these stylistic
patterns. To me, though, these so-called “tics” and “crutches” are the very
features that define their artistic identity.
In my own
work—especially in my new novel The Meaning of the Murder—I suppose my
“tic” and “crutch” are the em dash and the moral reckoning, respectively. I
like the jagged rhythm of the dash because it mirrors unfinished thought,
rising urgency, or suspended emotion. Police work involves this kind of urgent
and fluid pacing. My “crutch” would be a character facing a moral reckoning
because for me crime stories have a kind of built-in gravity, a center toward
which everything pulls. In my view, the most powerful engine in crime fiction
isn’t a plot twist—it’s the emotional climax that arrives when someone must
wrestle with guilt, justice, complicity, or forgiveness.
Of course, if a
writer is being lazy then, indeed, the terms “tic” and “crutch” are entirely
appropriate. But I tend to assume that a writer returning to his or her
signature style is just seeking that elusive place inside themselves where
language meets conviction, trying to write as well as they can about what
matters most to them. And let’s not forget—writing well is hard.
9. What
challenges did you overcome in the writing of this book?
One challenge I
had to overcome was the complexity of the material. The novel deals with the
machinery of the modern war on terror—how terrorist networks are funded, how
intelligence is gathered, how legal and financial institutions intersect with
national security. That meant I had to dig deeply into subjects outside my
crime reporting expertise. I spent countless hours researching OFAC (Office of
Foreign Assets Control) laws and compliance protocols, learning how
international banking systems can be manipulated to launder money or move funds
across borders without detection. I read declassified reports, studied
whistleblower cases, and spoke with former bank compliance officers, federal
prosecutors, and national security consultants.
What I discovered
is that fighting terror isn’t only about boots on the ground or intelligence in
the field—it’s also about spreadsheets, algorithms, and legal loopholes. It’s
about how systems meant to safeguard society can sometimes become complicit in
its endangerment. Translating all of that into compelling fiction—without
oversimplifying or overwhelming the reader—was one of the hardest things I’ve
done as a writer. But also one of the most rewarding.
The other
challenge was penetrating the inner life of the characters. The story explores
not only crime but also guilt, complicity, and the deep moral ambiguities that
shape our lives. Finding the right voice—one that honored the gravity of the
subject without veering into either preachiness or sensationalism—required many
drafts, much reflection, and a great deal of listening. Many people in the
military and law enforcement world spoke to me on the condition of anonymity,
and their insights were invaluable. It was a privilege to have them open up to
me.
Their trust
reminded me that writing fiction—especially about subjects as morally and
politically charged as this one—requires not just imagination, but
responsibility. The challenge wasn’t just to tell a gripping story. It was to
honor the complexity of the real world, while creating characters whose whose
private struggles could carry the emotional weight of a public crisis. In the
end, the hardest part of writing The
Meaning of the Murder was also the most meaningful: doing justice not just to
the facts, but to the humanity behind the facts.
10.
If people can buy or read one book this week or month, why should it be yours?
If readers are choosing just one book to read this week
or this month, I’d never presume to say it should be
mine. But I can say why I hope it might be worth their time.
The Meaning of the Murder
is, at its heart, a novel about people caught between public forces and private
lives. In a time when questions of terrorism, moral compromise, and cultural
identity have re-entered public consciousness in searing, heartbreaking ways,
the novel offers a lens into how those forces play out in the life of one
family. It’s a story about the cost of justice, the burden of truth, and the
ways we try to love and protect each other in an age of uncertainty.
The book also explores how the line between police work
and military action can blur—especially in the fight against terrorism.
Bringing together a soldier and a cop, the story dramatizes that unsettling
intersection. I think we all recognize that the world has become more and more
violent. It’s disturbing and difficult to face, but we can’t look away. As we
struggle to live peacefully in a dangerous world, we need to keep telling the
stories of those whose job it is to keep us safe.
Ultimately, however, I hope the book speaks not only to
current events, but to something timeless: the emotional consequences of living
in a world where political violence can strike close to home—and where the line
between duty and conscience is rarely clear. If that sounds like the kind of
story a reader is drawn to, then I would be honored to have them spend time
with this book.
About
Walter B. Levis: He is a former crime
reporter, lives in New York City. His articles have appeared in The NY
Daily News, The National Law Journal, The Chicago Reporter, The Chicago Lawyer,
The New Republic, Show Business Magazine, and The New Yorker,
among others. He is the author of the novel Moments of Doubt. His
short stories have appeared widely and have been chosen for a Henfield Prize
and nominated for a Pushcart Prize. For more information, visit walterblevis.com.
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Born
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