» Interview

To Try Something New: A Conversation with George Singleton

Wounded Boarders

George Singleton

Dzanc Books

$18.95

August 11, 2026

Tanner O’Neal: Most of the stories in Wounded Boarders feature a narrative voice dripping with satire. Has this tone always come naturally to you, or is it one you discovered through years of honing?

George Singleton: I think that when I first gave fiction writing a stab, in my early twenties, I might’ve veered more toward slapstick. Slapstick works in the movies, but not on paper. When I finally began writing short stories in first person, I found my voice.

O’Neal: The stories are linked through the setting of South Carolina. College of the Foothills shows up in multiple stories, and Myrtle Beach serves as a sort of promised land, the de facto dream vacation spot for many of the characters. What makes South Carolina such a fruitful setting for your fiction, both here and across your body of work?

Singleton: It’s as if the stories write themselves, because of the South Carolina setting. But I think I could set them anywhere from North Carolina to Mississippi. Some readers from South Carolina think I’m being too harsh or absurd. Half the time I think I’m not being honest enough.

O’Neal: We see how the passage of time has impacted the state economically, including the collapse of the cotton mill industry. The Civil War also seems to hang over the state, particularly the shadow of the confederacy. To what degree are your characters grappling with, or pushing against, the past?

Singleton: I guess most of my main characters are grappling with other characters who grapple with the past. I kind of see my protagonists walking throughout the stories, shaking their heads, trying to figure out why some people, sure enough, cannot come to grips with level-headed change.

O’Neal: One of your notable techniques involves digression and long lists that border on absurdity, such as the different brands of soda in “Badges.” What makes something as simple as a list so effective and so funny?

Singleton: I imagine that I’m just being lazy—I like to write out long lists, but it might be because I cannot figure out the next scene, or the next piece of dialogue.

O’Neal: There’s a clash of mindsets representative of class difference on display here. Characters pursuing higher ed, such as the protagonist of “I Know About Childproofing,” are ridiculed by those who prioritize street smarts. This is also the dichotomy at play in “Horace Poor, Horace Mint.” Do you see this issue as universal or regional, timeless or timely?

Singleton: Most of my main characters are college-educated, but not high-minded (I hope). I would think that these issues are universal. I mean, I would want someone in Maine or Wyoming to read my stories and feel the justices, and injustices, also. I might steer toward half-intelligent blue collar workers because of jobs I had in my teens and early twenties: garbage truck driver, roofer, house painter, and so on.

O’Neal: On a similar note, characters here struggle to find contentment with their occupations. What attracts you to the act of writing about work?

Singleton: I’ve never thought about this. Funny, I don’t write about teaching very often, something I’ve done longer than any other job. Maybe bad jobs, or difficult jobs, bring along instant conflict.

O’Neal: The book’s middle features a few pieces of flash fiction. Any craft tips for writing flash? Do you find the form more or less freeing than that of the stories you typically write?

Singleton: I don’t write flash fiction very well, but I try it when I’m feeling slightly brain dead.

O’Neal: Although I’m sometimes reluctant to admit it, I would label myself one of the “pro wrestling enthusiasts” lambasted by the protagonist of “The.” Wrestling appears in several stories, even underscoring the sexual consummation in “I Know About Childproofing.” What makes wrestling feel so at home in your work?

Singleton: Those might be the only stories I’ve ever written where pro wrestling has a part. Huh. I don’t mind pro wrestling, but—kind of like in question #3—I grapple (no pun intended) with people who don’t understand that the matches are scripted. Wrestling’s come a long way from when I was a kid—these men and women are really in shape, and although it might not be “real,” at least the athletes involved are athletic.

O’Neal: In a couple of stories, characters resort to extreme acts of political protest, such as the men who steal guns from homes impacted by storms in “I Know About Childproofing” or the father slashing the tires of likely gun owners in “I’m Down Here on the Floor.” What’s pushing these characters to take matters into their own hands?

Singleton: I guess these characters know that their legislatures aren’t going to do anything about it. Good grief. How many school shootings are we up to?

O’Neal: While most of these pieces feature a conversational voice, others play with narration. “I Know About Childproofing” features an “e-pistolary” form, with the story unfolding through a series of typed letters, while “Override” is conducted entirely over emails exchanged by an adjunct professor, prospective students, and an overreaching administrator. What about the epistolary form appeals to you, and did you look to any models before undertaking this approach?

Singleton: Good question. Again, slight laziness on my part. I’d not written epistolary stories in the past (I don’t think) and just wanted to try something new. Same with third-person narrations: I probably write a few per year, just to stay in shape. Like I said earlier, I spent ages twenty-one to twenty-eight writing long, bad, unpublishable third-person novels. The letter-writing stories plain came out of my being bored with my own work.

O’Neal: Many of these characters look to music, books, or film in order to make sense of their lives. The protagonist of “Field Glasses,” first published in The Florida Review, feels threatened by Neil Young and Thomas Wolfe; the main character in “Badges” ponders Burt Reynolds in Deliverance and Cannonball Run II. What works of art have you found formative in your life as a writer?

Singleton: Probably too many sitcoms, both growing up and now. The first thing I ever wrote was a bad imitation of Henry Gibson’s poetry on Laugh-In, back in the ’60s or ’70s. (For anyone younger than, say, sixty, go Google Henry Gibson Poetry. I still think those are hilarious.)

O’Neal: You’ve published hundreds of short stories, two novels, and a pair of books of essays and tips for writers. With the publication of Wounded Boarders behind you, what is your next writing endeavor?

Singleton: I just finished a novella that’s 27,000 words. Man, talk about hard to place in a journal. I wrote the novella, as with a lot of answers above, just to try something new. Don’t hold me to this, but I think I’ll write another one, and if I’m lucky to be alive and have a publisher look at it, it’ll be a couple novellas and some regular 5,000 word stories. Dzanc has been good about never saying, “You need to write a novel.” I’m thankful to my editor, Michelle Dotter, for letting me stay in a lane where I feel most comfortable. That hasn’t been the case when I was with earlier publishers.

George Singleton

George Singleton is the author of fifteen books. His short stories have appeared in The Atlantic Monthly, Harper’s, Playboy, Story, One Story, Zoetrope, The Georgia Review, The Pushcart Prize anthology, New Stories from the South, and elsewhere. His nonfiction has appeared in Garden and Gun, Oxford American, Bark, Best American Food Writing, and elsewhere. He’s received a Guggenheim fellowship and is a member of the Fellowship of Southern Writers.