Harry Whittington: The Last of His Kind

The days of the hard-working pulp writer might be over, but the

image of someone sitting behind a typewriter, tobacco-stained fingers

hammering out stories for which he or she is paid by the word, is still a

romantic one. These days fiction writers are lucky if their work nets

them anything approaching minimum wage, while only a fraction can be

said to make a decent living from their writing. Nevertheless, back

before the internet, when television was in its infancy, before the decline

of national newspapers and the corporatisation of publishing, when

paper was cheap and there was still a functioning working class, writers

willing to do the hard graft could sustain themselves in a world of pulp

magazines and cheap paperback houses.

Perhaps that’s an exaggeration. Because even then only a select

few were able to succeed in that world. Harry Whittington was certainly

one of them. Over the course of four decades, he made a living churning

out hardboiled crime stories, mysteries, westerns, soft-core porn,

southern historical novels and soap operas. He could do this because he

was well-versed in the market and how to write for it. From reading the

likes of Hammett, Chandler and Cain, he realized early on the importance

of both plot and those who inhabit the plot. Perhaps he sensed that it’s

the plot that turns the pages, but it’s the characters who leave a lasting

impression. Which is as true for Chandler’s The Big Sleep, Hammett’s

Red Harvest, or Whittington novels like Web of Murder, Strange Bargain or

Any Woman He Wanted.

Whittington- not the Harry Whittington wounded by former VP

Cheney in that famous quail-hunting incident, though that Whittington

and the incident could have come straight from one of writer-

Whittington’s novels- was the last of his kind. From the early 1950s to

the mid-1980s he might have been the hardest working writers in

Noirville, racking-up some 180 novels. In churning out his high-octane

books, he deployed over twenty noms-des-plumes: Whit Harrison (for

suspense and westerns), Clay Stuart (southern novels), Steve Philips

(police procedurals), Hondo Wells (westerns), Tabor Evans (westerns),

Harriet Kathryn Myers (nurse romances), Hallam Whitney (southern

novels), Ashley Carter (southern historical- Falconhurst series), Harry

White (westerns), as well as Howard Winslow, Henry Whittier, Curt

Colman, John Dexter, Kel Holland, Blaine Stevens and Suzanne Stephens.

Whittington novels like The Devil Wears Wings, Fires That Destroy, A

Moment to Prey and A Ticket to Hell are tense affairs, with knuckle-

crunching dialogue. But even though companies like Black Lizard, Stark

House and 280 Steps have reprinted several of his best novels,

Whittington has never achieved the same status as Hammett or Cain, nor

gained the same cult following as Thompson and Goodis.

Born in Ocala, Florida on February 4th, 1916, Whittington, at an

early age, fell in love with literature, particularly writers like

Dostoyevsky, Gorky, Maupassant, Balzac, Flaubert, Balzac, Dumas,

Anatole France, who wrote about the world as they saw it, and knew how

to create complex narratives that could twist and turn in any direction.

It’s ironic that Whittington, given his love for these more literary types,

would opt for “non-literary” pulp fiction. But Whittington, desperate to

make writing his life, was willing to take his accolades and paychecks

wherever he could get them. This after putting in more than a decade in

the straight world, in a St Petersburg publicity agency, as an assistant

manager of the town’s Capital Theater, followed by stints in the post

office, and as the editor-in-chief of periodicals like The Advocate.

No overnight success, Whittington set his sights on the paperback

and pulp magazine market. Unable to find a publisher for his first novel,

The World Before Us, he turned to westerns, publishing Vengeance Valley

in 1944. No doubt he would have loved to have been a Dostoyevsky or

Balzac, and maybe, in a way, he was. At least in so far as they wrote for a

living and knew the importance of simply telling a good story. And, even

though he hoped to be the next Scott Fitzgerald “with a touch of

Maugham,” the more Whittington moved in the direction of pulp fiction,

the more he would come to respect others who wrote for that market. In

his essay, “I Remember It Well,” which prefaces the Black Lizard reprints

of his work, he cites Day Keene, Gil Brewer, Talmage Powell and Fred

Davis, who also wrote by the word, putting in eight to ten hours a day in

to make a living during those final dog-days of pulp magazines. To

illustrate the competitive camaraderie amongst those writers:

Whittington claimed he’d taught Brewer and Keene everything they knew

about writing; meanwhile Brewer claimed he’d taught Whittington as

well as Keene everything they knew about writing, only to be

contradicted by Keene who claimed he had taught both Brewer and

Whittington everything they knew about writing. Probably they had all

influenced each other. Regardless, the onset of the paperback original

meant it was no longer a matter of getting paid by the word. Thanks to

the exigencies of publishing, one now had to work to contract, which, of

course, meant less autonomy for the likes of Whittington.

It was was a hard road to travel, but a road nevertheless. As

Whittington said half-jokingly in “I Remember It Well,” he hadn’t realized

when he began publishing in the late 1940s that most successful writers

in America were either college professors, ad men, reporters, lawyers,

dog catchers or politicians. Not entirely true, but his point is well taken.

Many successful writers had other jobs and, unlike Whittington, didn’t

have to meet the demands entailed in scratching for a living. Naive he

might have been, but nothing was going to hold Whittington back.

Consequently, he quit his job to be a full-time working writer. Still it

would be seven years before he sold his first story, to United Features in

1943 for $15. It would still be another five years before he could sell

stories on a regular basis.

 According to Whittington, he might never have entertained the

notion of writing crime and suspense stories had he not attended a 1949

writers’ conference in Chicago, where he was told by an editor that these

were the very stories publishers were looking for. On the bus journey

back to Florida, hemmed against a window by an overweight woman,

Whittington plotted his first crime story. He claims he arrived home on a

Monday, wrote the story that night, posted it on Tuesday, and by Friday

had a check for $250 from King Features, a long-standing Hearst outlet.

Fanciful or not, it illustrates Whittington’s writing speed and

methodology, while indicating the kind of money that could be made

from writing pulp fiction.

Whittington, who would write 30 novelettes for King, dove headlong

into the beast that was the burgeoning paperback market. Companies

like Fawcett, who paid writers “not by royalty but on print order. Foreign,

movie and TV rights stayed with the author. They were insane.” It was a

business model that seemed to work, at least for the likes of Whittington

and Brewer. No matter that they drove themselves into the ground trying

to fit into that system, which had the potential of paying well, however

much it curtailed their options. Of course, there was a price to be paid

for their servitude. To deal with the pressure entailed in churning-out

books, working to deadlines, scrounging for contracts, and making

promises that were difficult to keep, some would turn to alcohol or pills.

I don’t know if Whittington, who certainly liked to portray alcoholics in

his fiction, was as much of a drinker as Brewer or Thompson, but if so, it

would have been understandable.

Most likely more workaholic than alcoholic, it took Whittington, by

his own admission, thirteen years to master the art of creating a

compelling narrative. But once he did, he would immodestly say, “I could

plot, baby. I could plot.” More importantly, he could also now sell

practically anything he wrote, and live well off the proceeds. Believing

that not planning a novel was unprofessional, he admitted to having a

range of experiences and knowledge of various locales that fit the sort

of writing he was doing. Though he wanted to make the reader feel what

his characters felt, he had the wherewithal to move outside his own

experiences, that it wasn’t simply a case of writing about what one

knows. As he said, “you don’t have to die in a fire to write about arson.”

Whittington’s success eventually led to Hollywood. However, he had

problems adapting to the studio system. After all, Whittington had

always worked on his own, while in Hollywood he was expected to be

part of a team. Even so, his treatment for Trouble Rides Tall with Gary

Cooper became a TV series, The Lawman. While IMDB lists ten film

credits associated with his name: from the short The Wonderful World of

Tupperware (1959) to TV work on Lawman, The Alaskans, Cheyenne, The

Dakotas; and films like Desire In the Dust (1960, based on his novel),

Black Gold (1962, based on his story), Adios Gringo (1965, based on his

novel Adios), Fireball (1969), Dead in the Water (1991, based on his novel
Web of Murder). Undeterred, Whittington returned to Florida where he

wrote, produced and directed The Face of the Phantom, a horror movie

no distributor wanted to take on. For the next eight years, Whittington

wrote a number of scripts, but couldn’t sell any of them.

The 1960s proved to be Whittington’s most prolific decade. His

largest flurry of novels began in 1964 after he was contracted to produce

a 60,000 word novel, for which he was paid $1000. According to

Whittington, he handed in a novel per month for the next 39 months.

Those 39 novels have been referred to as Whittington’s “lost novels,”

because they have been difficult to track down. Published under various

pseudonyms, most were adult-themed narratives (thanks to Whittington

aficionado David Laurence Wilson, pretty much all of these books have

now been accounted for). Around this time he was also contacted to

write a series of tie-in novels based on The Man From Uncle under the

name Robert Hart-Davis, for which he was paid $1500. Not surprisingly,

Whittington ended up mentally and physically exhausted. Burnt out, he

quit writing and found employment with the Department of Agriculture.

Though even during his eight year tenure with the Department he

managed to churn out the odd novel. Eventually, Whittington, thanks to

his wife, located a new agent who, after suggesting he change to writing

name to Ashley Carter, negotiated contracts for some eighteen

antebellum plantation novels featuring Falconhurst, a series begun by

Kyle Onstott and, then, Lance Horner, as well as at least seven in the
Blackoaks series, about a Mandingo slave, and six Longarm westerns

under the name Tabor Evans.

Despite his output, Whittington was smart enough to sometimes

stand back to let his material crystallize on its own. For example, having

signed a contract with Fawcett in 1952 to write a novel for which he

received a $1000 advance, Whittington produced My Bloody Hands,

about a crooked cop fed up with the corruption around him, including his

own. However, he and his editors knew the novel wasn’t quite right, so

Fawcett told him to keep the advance and work on something else. Four

years later, while visiting a prison with a friend who was interviewing

an inmate for True Detective, Whittington, noting his surroundings,

realized the protagonist of My Bloody Hands shouldn’t be a corrupt cop

but a citizen on the take and content to keep on doing so. So he went

home, changed the title, and, over the next month, finished the novel,

which included an opening set in a similar prison. Consequently, he

would say he was never sure if Forgive Me Killer took one month or four

years to write. As for his usual working process, Whittington normally

started with the climax, crisis or denouement and worked backwards,

teasing and terrifying the reader, while establishing the plot that would

unlock the story. Consequently, the novel’s shape would dictate its

effect. Whittington liked to quote Spillane: “The first page sells the book

being read, the last page sells the one you’re writing.”
 For someone so intensely involved in the writing process,

Whittington’s work, despite dubious portrayals of women, could be oddly

political. As he once said, “Not one of my heroes is ever permitted, by

his own disenchanted sanity, to believe in the sanity of the social order

around him.” Regardless of how dangerous their situation, Whittington’s

protagonists have only themselves to rely upon, and their true selves

cannot help but be revealed. Faced with that moment of truth,

Whittington’s libertarian heroes “[Cannot] put on a happy face. He is

pushed to the place where he can trust only himself, even when he

recognizes the impossible odds he faces.”

Like many other noirists, Whittington would find greater favor in

France. Though, come the 1980s, with no new Whittington novels in

sight, pundits there were beginning to think he had ascended to noir

heaven, his death unnoticed by unappreciative Americans. Meanwhile,

French periodicals like 813 and Magazine Litteraire were celebrating

him, the latter calling him a “master of the roman noir,” and the best of

the second generation of crime writers. Of course, Whittington was no

stranger to French crime readers, with numerous novels published by

Gallimard’s Serie Noire, beginning with You’ll Die Next (Carré Noir) in

1954, followed by the likes of Hell Can Wait, published in 1956, four years

before it appeared in the U.S., and The Humming Box in 1957. And from

1951 onwards, French magazines Le Fantome and Verrou had been

publishing translations of his stories. Rafael Sorin in Le Monde compares

him to Goodis, Tracy and Gault, adding , “Even the most minor of

Whittington’s earliest narratives reread today does not fail to charm.

Whittington, who acknowledges the influences of Cain, Frederic Davis

and Day Keene is the most violent writer of this genre. His tomb of death

can be the appliance freezer, alligators, mosquitoes carrying fatal virus.

But his worst enemy is la femme. She who kills for money and devours

those who succumb to her charms.”

But Whittington also had his American admirers. Anthony Boucher-

writing in the New York Times of You’ll Die Next: “I couldn’t have held my

breath any longer in this vigorous tale whose plot is too dexterously

twisted even to mention in a review.”- and the eccentric suspense writer

Harry Stephen Keeler, who said, “Whittington is only writer I know who

can make a sex scene last six pages without ever going out of bounds.”

But it would only be in the 1980s, thanks to Black Lizard, that his novels

Forgive Me, Killer, The Devil Wears Wings, Fires That Destroy, A Moment

to Prey, A Ticket to Hell and Web of Murder were reprinted, that

Whittington would be rehabilitated for a new readership. While articles

acknowledging his influence and the quality of his work began to appear

in magazines like The West Coast Review of Books, Twentieth Century

Crime and Suspense Writers, Twentieth Century Western Writers.

Given today’s market, it’s doubtful anyone, no matter how

committed, could repeat Whittington’s accomplishments. Whether in

terms of output or the quality of what Whittington, on the top of his

game, could produce. Today, despite the internet, there aren’t the same

outlets and few if any that can pay the same rates, if at all. Likewise,

there’s considerably less money to spend on writers unconnected to

corporate publishers. Consequently, few, given the choice or chance,

would seek to travel down that road. Even back in the 1980s

Whittington, reflecting on his most prolific years, maintained there were

fewer than “500 people in the U.S. make their living from full-time

freelance writing,” which made him, since 1948, one of “fortune’s 500.”

Though he described writing as “a blast,” he admitted there was a

downside, saying, “With all the fallout, fragmentation, frustration and

free-falls known to man, I’ve careened around on heights I never

dreamed of, and simmered in pits I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy,

and survived.”

With these recent reprints and laudatory words, Whittington, who

died in 1989 at age 74, might yet receive the recognition he clearly

deserves. As hardboiled pundit Bill Crider said about Whittington’s A

Night For Screaming, he could begin “with a tense situation and then dial

up the tension on every succeeding page. He can put his protagonist into

a situation that seems as bad as it can get, and then he can make it

worse. And after that, he can make it worse still.” So welcome to

Whittington’s world, as psychologically gripping and off-kilter as Jim

Thompson or David Goodis, and, plot-wise, as unrelenting as James M.

Cain. And even though he never did become the next Fitzgerald, when it
came to hardboiled noir, Whittington, at his best, was as good as anyone

and far better than most.