In the wake of a national crisis, a software consultant and university professor found himself grappling with a question that has come to define our era: how can a democracy function when its citizens cannot even agree on a shared set of facts? David Levitt, a professor at Metropolitan State University, was driving home one afternoon in January 2021, having just picked up a book on campus, when the radio began broadcasting reports of the attack on the U.S. Capitol. The news stopped him cold. He had always taken the peaceful transfer of power for granted, a bedrock assumption of American life, and in that moment, he realized it was no longer a guarantee. The experience was so jarring that it reminded him of where he was when he first heard about the 9/11 attacks. It was one of those rare, seismic moments that split time into before and after, and for Levitt, the “after” was defined by a new and urgent conviction: disinformation was not an abstract problem confined to social media echo chambers, but a tangible threat with the power to erode the very foundations of democratic institutions.
This personal reckoning became the seed for Levitt’s forthcoming novel, Marty’s Movement for Truth, a work that explores a grassroots effort to combat political polarization and disinformation without mirroring the hostility that increasingly characterizes public discourse. Interestingly, Levitt never set out to write a novel. His professional background is deeply rooted in the logic of software development, and he approached the literary project much like he might approach a complex codebase: first establishing a clear vision, then breaking the project down into component parts, and gradually filling in the gaps. The idea itself was born almost by accident. During a conversation with his cousin, Gina, a fellow writer, they discussed the possibility of a sequel to her book. Levitt, throwing out a concept, suggested a story about a movement that confronts disinformation. His cousin loved the idea, but her schedule was too full to take it on. “All right, cousin,” she told him. “That’s a great idea. Why don’t you write it?” Initially, Levitt treated the suggestion as a joke, but the next morning, he woke up with a newfound sense of purpose. “Why not?” he thought. The result is a novel that, while firmly in the realm of fiction, is deeply grounded in reality. The history and many of the events are real, and while the central characters are invented, some real-world figures appear within the narrative. Levitt summarizes the dynamic succinctly: “The events are true. The characters are false.”
At the heart of Levitt’s book lies a crucial distinction that he believes is more important than ever in the digital age: the difference between misinformation and disinformation. Misinformation, he argues, can be an honest mistake—like giving a stranger incorrect directions. It is wrong, perhaps, but there is no malice or strategic intent behind it. Disinformation, however, is a completely different beast. It is a deliberate, well-researched, and strategic campaign designed to deceive, with an objective that might be political, financial, ideological, or religious. This distinction is critical because disinformation is engineered to look like the truth, and when it is amplified by the algorithms of social media, it becomes a runaway train. Levitt explains that these platforms create a dangerous feedback loop: controversial and inflammatory content generates engagement, which triggers amplification, which exposes more people to the initial falsehood. The algorithm, in effect, “keeps putting more fuel on the fire,” rewarding the very behavior that poisons our public square. Combined with the human tendency to gravitate toward information that confirms our existing beliefs, this creates a world that Levitt describes as “echo chambers,” where we are surrounded only by reinforcing perspectives and are never challenged to think differently.
For Levitt, the consequences of this environment are not merely academic. He has friends with political views that differ radically from his own, relationships spanning decades that have proven that disagreement does not have to destroy a connection. “We’re able to communicate,” he says. But he is deeply concerned by the growing trend of people severing ties with friends and family simply because they are part of a different political camp. That kind of social fracture, he says, is dangerous. His preferred method of navigating a contentious conversation is not to attack the person, but to ask a simple, disarming question: “Hey, where did you get your information from? I’d like to learn more about that.” Sometimes, he discovers the source is legitimate and offers a new perspective. Other times, he finds the source is deeply unreliable. But in either case, asking questions is far more productive than immediately escalating an argument. Levitt doesn’t place all the blame on the individual. He points to the structural realities of the internet, specifically Section 230 of the Communications Decency Act, which grants online platforms broad legal immunity for user-generated content. When that law was enacted in 1996, the internet was in its infancy. Now, these platforms are global behemoths with the power to influence elections and public health debates. Levitt is skeptical that the current legal framework can address the problem of algorithmic amplification, and he is even more skeptical that a divided Congress will provide a clear solution. And, he insists, we cannot simply expect these billion-dollar industries to police themselves. “They’re going to fight with everything that they have,” he notes. As a result, his book places a heavy emphasis on individual responsibility and media literacy.
For Levitt, media literacy is not just a soft academic skill; it is a civic requirement for functioning in a modern society. He credits his grandmother, an immigrant from Europe who read the newspaper every day, with instilling this lesson in him. She warned him that people who do not stay informed can easily be taken advantage of. His message to his students is simple: use reliable sources, and be willing to encounter information that challenges your preconceived notions. He advocates for a culture of “disagreeing without being disagreeable,” a philosophy that also guides his view of journalism. In an age where anyone with a smartphone can publish to the world, Levitt insists that publishing does not equal journalism. Journalism, he argues, serves a vital social function: to inform the public. It operates under professional standards that call for verification and corrections, and it can be held legally accountable for its output. While he admits journalism is not perfect, he insists “it’s the best that we have.” He is alarmed by the increasingly hostile environment toward the press, arguing that an attack on a journalist is an attack on the public’s right to independent information. For news organizations, the answer is solidarity: “An attack against one is an attack against all.” He recommends that college students use independent resources like NewsGuard and Snopes to evaluate claims, especially now that artificial intelligence can fabricate websites, articles, and citations that look perfectly legitimate. This new technology, he warns, is a powerful weapon in the hands of foreign actors who can use it to produce and distribute deceptive content at scale.
Perhaps the most central argument of Marty’s Movement for Truth is the need to distinguish between facts and their interpretation. Facts, in Levitt’s view, are things that can be independently verified. The problems begin when citizens cannot agree on the verifiable facts themselves. Two people can look at the same temperature trend or scientific measurement and argue vigorously about its meaning. That interpretation and debate is not just okay; it is the lifeblood of democracy. “As long as we look at the same facts, that’s okay,” he says. The crisis emerges when we cannot agree on the baseline reality. “If you don’t have that common denominator, which is the facts, you can’t have healthy dialogue.” Levitt concedes that democracy is messy and imperfect, but he argues that its inherent chaos is infinitely preferable to the tidy, enforced silence of authoritarianism. “Democracies are always a little messy,” he says. “And that’s okay.” He does not believe his book solves America’s information crisis; instead, he views it as a contribution to a larger, essential conversation. His ultimate worries are less about his own generation—at 70, he says, “I think I’ll be okay”—as they are about the generations that will inherit this fractured media ecosystem. “This is going to affect them,” he warns. That concern is what transformed a lighthearted idea between two cousins into a serious novel about the future of democracy, journalism, media literacy, and public discourse. Levitt already has ideas for a sequel, but for now, his hope for Marty’s Movement for Truth is disarmingly simple: to get people talking. In a world pushing us further apart, starting a conversation might just be the most radical and necessary action we can take.