R. Quincy Cameron

R. Quincy Cameron writes languid sentences that tend to move more like poetry than prose, and that aim to grip the heart as much as make it race. A serial relocator, always moving north and east, she currently lives on an island—to her great surprise—and loves to watch the sea.

After winning the creative writing competition at the state fair once upon a time (she was hoping to raise cows—but alas), she began a torrid love affair with the written word. It is almost certainly the best relationship she’s ever had.

By day, she (hopefully) helps to shape the great minds of the future in very old lecture halls; she indulges frequently in a cuppa or a pint with friends and colleagues by afternoon, marks exam scripts by evening, and enjoys a wee dram every night before swapping sleep for writing. As you do.

This routine generally requires four to ten cups of coffee a day—depending on the day. Her baristas love her enough to know her order and warn when the blend changes. Her cafetière likely does not love her, because she’s broken the glass on it from overuse about ten times.

She primarily publishes essays and poetry, which have won awards nationally and internationally. She has been told throughout the years that she’s trying to beat James Joyce on account of sentence length, and that she strings said sentences together like a “postmodern female Alan Ginsberg”. That questionable online “I Write Like” generator tells her she writes like Margaret Atwood and Ernest Hemingway.

You can be the judge if any of them were even remotely accurate.