Seattle writer Larson once more entwines dual narratives with his new book

He would never do another book like "The Devil in the White City," Erik Larson vowed. The money from the best-seller was wonderful -- it even allowed the Seattle writer to indulge his taste for a classic 1967 Austin Healy -- but writing a book with dual narratives was a nightmare.

"I'll never do that again," Larson assured his wife. "It's so darn hard."

This week, bookstores across America are displaying Larson's much-anticipated follow-up to "The Devil in the White City," a No. 1 best-seller in both hardback and paperback. But the new book, with its massive first printing of 300,000 copies, has made a liar of its creator, who was so certain he "did not want to be derivative of myself."

Larson's "Thunderstruck" (Crown, 392 pages, $25.95) again entwines tales of two men -- one a creative genius, the other a murderer. This time, "White City's" architect for the Chicago World's Fair and a serial killer who finds victims at the exposition have been replaced by the Nobel Prize-winning inventor of wireless technology (Guglielmo Marconi) and the most notorious British murderer since Jack the Ripper (Hawley Crippen), who dispatched his overbearing wife in ways most foul.

Larson, the Northwest's most popular creator of non-fiction, resisted the dual stories' allures as long as he could, but too many signs kept saying, "Write this!"

There was the fact that his own mystery-loving mother had once mentioned Crippen to her inquisitive son on Long Island and Larson recalled "the aura of romance" that she had conveyed about the case. There was the fact that wireless technology is so pervasive today with cell phones in every pocket and purse, but its shaky beginnings remain lost in the fog of history. And finally, there was the astounding link between Marconi's invention and the Crippen case.

The milquetoast murderer, with his comely young lover in tow, fled the continent on an ocean liner, only to be discovered because of the fledgling wireless technology recently installed aboard ships. And that in turn set off a trans-Atlantic chase with a faster liner in pursuit, carrying a Scotland Yard detective hoping to beat Crippen to Canada, the entire drama being tracked by wireless reports, including those provided by the captain of the ship carrying Crippen and his lover. The couple had no clue that they were Page 1 news devoured by millions of readers around the globe.

"I knew this was a book," Larson says in recalling that discovery. "The chase would provide a powerful scene."

The dramatic chase does not really commence until page 327 of "Thunderstruck," which may prove a disappointment for the legions of Larson readers. And another disappointment may be that the murder of Crippen's wife is not discovered until page 306.

There is a lot of slow and detailed build-up until those two events finally unfold after a carefully constructed portrait of the Edwardian Age in the first decade of the 20th century, what the author describes as "social history through the lens of murder." "Thunderstruck's" first 300 pages showcase Larson's unabashed love of historical details and curiosities, but may be less than riveting for readers not enthralled by the fitful trial and error of Marconi's invention or the steady disintegration of one middle-class marriage in London.

Larson, 52, takes a considerable chance once again with his unusual dual approach to narrative, but readers have shown no signs of tiring of his historical re-creation. His "Isaac's Storm," a gripping account of a devastating 1900 hurricane in Texas, put Larson's name on the best-seller lists for the first time in 1999. "White City" has kept it there, with a 2004 paperback edition that is still on The New York Times list after an astounding 138 weeks, such a long time that one of his three daughters always inquires on Sundays, "Where's Dad now?"

Larson says he was "totally surprised" by the runaway success of "White City," especially since he knew numerous writers whose efforts to follow up best-sellers had fallen far short of previous success. He believes enthusiastic readers in book clubs have kept "White City" from suffering that same fate.

"White City's" amazing success put the writer in daunting new territory. The Austin Healy was a nice dividend, as was additional college money for his daughters (ages 12, 16 and 18), but there were definite psychological challenges, too.

"I did feel pressure," Larson says. "I finally came around to believing that if I let the pressure get to me, nothing good would come of it. Because you can't top yourself with books. Try to do that, you go crazy. When I finally realized that, I started to relax and look for my next project."

"Thunderstruck" never would have been possible without "White City." It bankrolled his next book with a hefty publisher's advance and emboldened Larson to undertake a story set mostly in Europe, with all the attendant challenges of research and interviews in other countries. Never before had he ventured outside the United States in pursuit of a central story, a challenge he took so seriously that Larson started studying Italian in anticipation of upcoming research into the life of Marconi.

Larson's approach to his books owes a distinct debt to his undergraduate degree in Russian history and culture from the University of Pennsylvania and his master's in journalism from Columbia University, as well as his two reporting stints on the Wall Street Journal. Larson is a highly disciplined and organized detail fanatic, with an unquenchable thirst for new discoveries, no matter how obscure.

"I ask readers to forgive my passion for digression," Larson writes at the outset of "Thunderstruck." "If, for example, you learn more than you need to know about a certain piece of flesh, I apologize in advance, though I confess I make that apology only halfheartedly."

That comment is vintage Larson, more self-assured than self-effacing, perhaps even a tad arch. But the truth is he already has faced the toughest critic of his digressions -- Dr. Christine Gleason, a division chief in pediatrics at the University of Washington Medical Center. Gleason is Larson's wife, mother of their children and the trusted, unpaid editor of his work par excellence.

The couple, who moved to Seattle in 1997 from Baltimore, have the writer/editor duet down pat. That duet has its own rules of engagement that govern who does what when in their spacious and handsomely appointed Montlake home with its baby grand piano and its golden retriever named Molly.

"She cannot read in the house when I'm here," Larson relates. "We have decided that for the good of our marriage."

And when Gleason makes her painstaking way through a manuscript filled with every digression that delights Larson, she then proceeds to mark up the margins with a bevy of graded reactions, ranging from plaudits (signified by up arrows) to brickbats (signified by the dreaded "zzzzzzz's," requiring a passage's immediate removal).

"She has a good instinct," Larson emphasizes.

The original manuscript for "Thunderstruck" must have been as overstuffed as a high-end goose-down comforter, since the indefatigable researcher had pursued its story across two continents -- to Michigan, Massachusetts and Nova Scotia; to London, Munich and Rome.

There were unforgettable moments for Larson in his search, which took more than two years.

There was the time when he and his eldest daughter -- who also studied Italian with him and achieved a far greater fluency -- arrived in Rome on the eve of the pope's funeral and were having dinner in an empty out-of-the-way trattoria when there was a sudden rush of security and former President Bill Clinton walked through the door.

There was the time when Larson was in a London archive and kept coming upon references to a Scotland Yard file on Crippen, prompting him to ask a question that led him to the massive file that contained virtually all of the important first source material on the case. And, best of all, archivists were happy to provide, for suitable payment, a copy of the entire file that only recently had been opened to researchers, with Larson being the very first to gain access.

"Whoa, this is going to be good!" Larson remembers thinking at the time. And it turned out to be a find of pure gold.

That was one of those special research days when the writer returned to his hotel and saluted the unexpected fruits of his labors with an extra shot of celebratory single-malt scotch.

Two years of writing still remained on "Thunderstruck," with its own challenges all leading up to another climactic rendezvous on the bedroom floor outside Larson's cramped office.

"The greatest challenge of these books is the structure," he explains. "You've got to make the two stories work together in one full story, which raises all sorts of unusual issues.

"So I do a complete rough draft of the manuscript, then I get down on the bedroom carpet and start cutting various parts with scissors and then rearranging them into the narrative. It's a very physical process and the first run-through usually takes 48 hours. I started doing this with 'Isaac's Storm' and I've found that it is the best way to decide how to form a narrative that will keep readers' interest."

Erik Larson, 21st-century non-fiction phenomenon, turns out to be a master of the old-fashioned cut-and-paste.

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