Don't remember these books? Don't want to? Don't sweat it. Art Scott remembers them so we don't have to. (Thanks, Art!)
I'd never had any interest in reading Orrie Hitt, but Stark House sent me a double volume a while back, and I saw a swell blog post by Brian Greene calling him "the Shakespeare of Shabby Street," (HERE), so I figured I should see what all the fuss was about.
So I read Wayward Girl, and it wasn't what I expected. It's sort of two books in one, all by itself.
Hitt is thought to have written about 150 novels, so judging him on only one isn't fair. What I can say is that as a writer, he's perfectly competent. He puts one word after another just fine, but is almost entirely without style. Wayward Girl is a book I probably won't forget any time soon, but it did not make me want to read another.
In the end, I'm conflicted. I didn't really want to read sleaze, but since I went to the effort, I expected to be rewarded. This book just wasn't sleazy enough. Of course, Hitt's books are probably not meant to be read, anyway. They're meant to be collected and smirked at, and seem to serve that purpose quite well.
