Maria Nazos is the
author of The Slow Horizon that Breathes (World Poetry Books, 2023),
longlisted for the Angelo-Hellenic League Runciman Award, a collection of poems
translated from the Greek poet Dimitra Kotoula, and a collection of poems, PULSE
(Omnidawn, 2026), listed as one of Ms. Magazine’s Reads for the Rest
of Us: The Best Poetry of 2025 and 2026. Her poetry, essays, and translations
are forthcoming or have appeared in Poets & Writers, The New
Yorker, Literary Hub, and The Adroit. Maria has held a wide
range of jobs, including whale-watching boat attendant, table dancer, and,
arguably, the worst waitress on Cape Cod. If she spilled Pinot Noir on you, she
apologizes. You can find her at www.marianazos.com.
How did your first book change your life? How does your most recent work compare?
The way my first book changed my life was that it made me realize it's okay to wait for work to become true.
I feel like I really, really rushed the river with my initial collection. In fact, I don’t really talk about it much for that reason. It’s a sore subject, but like most wounds, it’s worth returning to the scar tissue. Nonetheless, it taught me something I don't think I could have learned any other way.
The biggest difference between that book and PULSE is that PULSE took sixteen years to write. I was so determined and so aggressive about cranking out my first book. What PULSE ultimately taught me is that sometimes you have to wait a maddening amount of time for something to come out right. It isn't on your timeline. In fact, I think the more I tried to force it, the less worth it it became. The more I let the work tell me what it needed, the better it got. I think there's so much wisdom in the waiting, even in the worst moments of it. Looking back, that's probably the biggest lesson both books taught me.
How did you come to poetry?
I wanted to write fiction. I loved reading fiction, especially as an undergrad, and I just assumed that's what I would write. What became immediately apparent to me was that, frankly, I just wasn't that good. And I think people always want to jump in and go, "No, no, that's not true." But it’s true. Could I have become a good fiction writer with enough time? Sure. I believe most of us can become good at almost anything if we devote enough time.
But one of the greatest gifts in life is realizing what you're naturally inclined toward versus what you're constantly forcing. Meanwhile, my poetry just kept getting more and more attention. So, at some point I just naturally began to follow that.
I'm not advocating for the path of least resistance. I think the lesson is paying attention to where something feels alive. For me, poetry was where that happened. And it’s strangely liberating to accept in life where you suck. We’re taught to think we can do anything. That’s not true, and giving ourselves permission to accept our shortcomings opens us up to being honest with ourselves, our work, and our due north.
As I like to joke, but not really, my short stories just kept getting shorter and shorter until they became poems, which makes no sense, given the amount that I talk.
How long does it take to start a writing project?
Getting started is no problem. I think I'm pretty prolific. I can write very, very quickly. It's putting collections together that's the slower process. Although now that PULSE is out in the world, I feel like that's become a lot easier. I really feel like I had to birth out this stubborn brainchild, and now I have a much better sense of what I'm doing.
As for first drafts, Marie Howe taught me something that's really stuck. We're so used to editing in Microsoft Word that we sometimes lose things during revision. And because my writing is so prosy, my instinct is always to cut.
What I started doing is numbering every draft instead of writing over the old one. That way I can always go back. I can compare, print them out, and see what I lost and what I gained.
So no, my first drafts don't look anything like the finished poems. They end up looking very, very different because the final version is really a combination of all those different iterations. I definitely tend to whittle a lot, but sometimes what gets cut from one draft often ends up being the weird, crazy heart of the poem I feared and tried to edit out, which finds its way back into another.
Where does a poem begin?
Usually I'll read something incredible, and one line will strike me. Then it's seriously like I have food poisoning, but instead of running to the bathroom, I run to my study. I literally have to get up, dash to my desk, and just write, write, write, write.
It's a strange feeling. It's almost like channeling or taking dictation. I don't feel like I'm inventing something so much as trying to keep up with it before it disappears.
Do you enjoy public readings?
Yes and no.
Readings, especially in-person ones, take a lot of psychological energy. The week leading up to one, I get temperamental, stressed, and snappy because I know it's already taking a lot out of me, and I know it's going to take even more. I am jealous of people who can do two or more readings a week. I consider myself a high-energy person, but even a single reading can flatline me for weeks.
So, do I enjoy doing readings? I'm good at them. I don't know that I enjoy them. What I've found is that once I get up there, I'm A-OK. And then afterward there's this wonderful, exhilarating crash where I finally let go of all the tension. That's the part I really enjoy.
But the days leading up to it? To this day, I still get nervous. It doesn't matter how many readings I've done or how many years I've been doing this. I think I'll probably always feel that way.
What theoretical questions are you trying to answer?
I don't think I have theoretical concerns so much as concrete ones. The questions I'm always trying to answer are things like: What makes us human? And how do we continue with this life when it can, frankly, be really fucking terrible, but also beautiful?
I think my work is almost always about answering the question of resilience.
I'm not going to lie. I've been through a lot of shit. And one of the nicest things people have ever said to me is that someone with my life might be coiled up in a corner. Instead, I still somehow gravitate toward idealism. Whether that's a strength or a defense mechanism, I honestly don't know.
But that's what fascinates me. How do we go through massively horrible things and still find a way to continue? How do we still see the good? How do we survive when the universe can feel so random and aimless and pitiless?
Because at the same time, I also see miracles happen all the time. I see acts of incredible kindness. I see people surprise each other. I see beauty.
I think the question underneath almost everything I write is: What is that thing that keeps us going? What is that thing that creates just a little bit of magic in our lives, even when everything tells us it shouldn't be there?
What do you see the current role of the writer being in larger culture? Do they even have one? What do you think the role of the writer should be?
Honestly, I think it's to be as much ourselves as possible.
The work that resonates most deeply with me, and the writers who resonate most deeply with me, are the people who are unapologetically themselves...as long as they're not assholes.
I think the role of a writer is to be so flipping authentic that the work feels like another organ. And I think that kind of authenticity doesn't just deepen our understanding of ourselves. It helps us see one another's unflinching humanity.
The other thing that's important to me is service. Mentoring. Building relationships. Showing up for other people. That's huge, huge, huge, huge, huge for me.
I don't know where I'd be without my students. I don't know where I'd be without the writers who mentored me. So, I don't think our job ends when we finish the poem. I think part of being a writer is helping create the kind of literary community that made our own work possible in the first place.
Do you find the process of working with an outside editor difficult or essential (or both)?
Oh my gosh, I think it's essential.
Rusty Morrison at Omnidawn works one-on-one with her authors, and whatever she does works. The press’s books keep getting placed, shortlisted, longlisted, and winning awards, and it's for a reason. She knows exactly what she's doing.
But what I really appreciate is that she never says, "This is the way it has to be." She'll make a suggestion, and then if you're like, "Wait, what about this?" she'll talk it through with you. I accepted most of her suggestions, of course, but it's always a conversation. You find a middle ground. I find that super, super fun. It's not just me resolving comments. It's genuinely collaborative.
Another person I trust a great deal is Lindsay Lusby. If you're ever struggling with the arc of a poetry collection or how to put it together, she's fantastic at teasing out the underlying themes and helping you see what the book is trying to do.
And honestly, some of the best editing I've ever gotten has come from friends. Becky Fink, from one of my workshops, was the person who helped me discover the underlying structure of PULSE. I remember she told me, "I'm going to be your Columbo. I'm going to figure out what's going on here and why this isn't working." I'd been sending the manuscript out and getting frustrated, and she helped me completely rethink the structure.
So yes, whether it's an editor at a press, a freelance editor, or another writer you trust, I think it's incredibly important. I also love editing other people's work. I think it's one of the great joys of being part of a writing community.
What is the best piece of advice you've heard (not necessarily given to you directly)?
You know, I think the best advice I've ever heard came from Werner Herzog. There was this young filmmaker who was complaining that his work wasn't getting enough attention, and he was tired of rejection and all of that.
And Herzog's response, and I'm paraphrasing, was basically: Get back to fucking work. Steal a camera if you have to.
I love that. Because this really is a path for the courageous and the faithful. You must find a reason to do this beyond recognition, beyond celebration of yourself.
Because if you start going down that road...there’s a reason why, say, engineers aren’t known as bipolar alcoholics, but writers, on the other hand…we can go down that rabbit hole and destroy ourselves if we aren’t careful.
I won't name names, but I've watched writers who have won National Book Awards, been Pulitzer finalists, and received every accolade you could imagine, and somehow, they've completely lost themselves.
Not because they stopped being good writers. Because suddenly they're worried that they don't have enough social media followers, that they’re being overshadowed by the next young, sweet, talented thing, or their publisher isn't marketing them well enough, or somebody didn't promote them enough, or somebody else got the opportunity they wanted.
Don’t get me wrong; I am guilty of it too. I just got a rejection from the Dodge Poetry Festival and cried. I regularly feel jealousy, invisibility, and competition. And I have to allow myself to feel it, then somehow bounce back.
And lord, believe me when I say, it’s a merciless and mysterious industry. And if I dwell in that resentful headspace for too long, I’m at risk of becoming those poets whom I used to respect, but who have allowed fame and its theatre of heightened expectations to let them down so low, they’ve never returned from their self-created narcissism. I think that's the exact moment we forget why we're doing this in the first place. For me, the work must come first. Everything else is just weather, but man, those storms come.
How easy has it been for you to move between genres (poetry to essays to translation)? What do you see as the appeal?
It's not easy. Poetry and essays I can move back and forth between a little more easily because they're both my voice. As long as I have dedicated time for each one, I'm fine. One weekend poetry, one weekend essays? Great. But I couldn't do both in the same sitting.
Translation? Forget it. Translation is completely all-consuming. If I'm translating, everything else has to go. The appeal is different for each genre, too. Translation, for me, is an act of literary service. It's incredibly creative, but it's also humbling because you're not trying to amplify your own voice. You're the person in between, trying to help another writer's work find new readers.
Essays I've only recently come back to, and I'm having so much fun with them. I had an awful nonfiction teacher in undergrad who completely undermined my confidence, so I drifted away from that genre for a long time. It's been exciting to come back to it and rediscover my own voice.
And poetry? At this point...I don't even know if I'd call it an appeal anymore.
It would just be weird not to do it.
What kind of writing routine do you tend to keep, or do you even have one? How does a typical day (for you) begin?
Well, I work full-time in tech, so my writing routine probably doesn't look like what people imagine.
Most mornings I'm clocking in at 7:00 a.m., and that's my day. Thus, my writing really happens on the weekends.
I try to wall off at least two or three hours on Saturday and Sunday where I split my time between the administrative side of being a writer and the writing itself and revising, putting collections together, working on essays, working on new poems. Honestly, most of my time is probably spent revising.
One thing I've really had to let go of is comparing myself to other writers. I'd love to be Ted Kooser and wake up at three in the morning and write before work every day. Don’t get me wrong, I love the man, but that's just not going to happen. I guess my routine isn't about trying to live up to somebody else, no matter how much I admire them. It's about carefully protecting a few hours every weekend and trusting that that's enough. For me, that's what consistency looks like.
When your writing gets stalled, where do you turn or return for (for lack of a better word) inspiration?
When I get stalled, I'll bet my money on Kim Addonizio and Dorianne Laux every single time.
When I'm running on empty, they're the writers I always come back to because they somehow revive me.
They were also the first poets who really got me excited about writing poetry in the first place. So I think every time I go back to them, I'm not just reconnecting with their work. I'm reconnecting with that first feeling of falling in love with poetry.
What fragrance reminds you of home?
My husband.
David W. McFadden once said that books come from books, but are there any other forms that influence your work, whether nature, music, science or visual art?
Oh, absolutely. Probably the biggest influence on me outside of books has always been film. I wish I'd been able to do a film minor in graduate school. I even taught a Women in Popular Culture course that focused heavily on film. I've loved movies ever since I was a kid, especially horror, although I really love all kinds of film.
The news definitely influences my work, too. I don't know that I'm always in conversation with one particular current event, but I do think my work is consistently in dialogue with the world. Whether it's politics, violence, or questions about how we live together, I find those things inevitably making their way into the poems.
In other words, I wouldn't say I'm responding to headlines as much as I'm responding to the larger human conversations we're all living through.
What other writers or writings are important for your work, or simply your life outside of your work?
You know, there are a lot of writers who are important to my work, but they're also important to my life outside of my work because they're not just extraordinary writers. They're my friends. They're my former students. They're my current students.
I'm just really honored to have a seat at the table with them. I'll name a few because they're constantly publishing incredible books and creating awesome artwork: Rick Christensen, Debbie Nordyke, Kandala Singh, Bradley Nordell, Abbie Jameson, Suzanne Ócsai... and there are so many others.
Honestly, if you look at the people commenting on my work, and the people whose work I'm commenting on, you're looking at a community that's been built over years of teaching, writing, and showing up for one another.
So yes, they influence my work. But more importantly, they've shaped my life. And if I've left anyone out, please forgive me. You all matter to me.
What would you like to do that you haven't yet done?
I would love, love, love to write a memoir.
Cassie Mannes Murray at Pine State Publicity got me back into writing essays. She pointed out something I hadn't really thought about before, which is that essays are a wonderful way for poets to break out of their genre and become known by a wider audience.
More importantly, she gave me so much confidence in my nonfiction. That really mattered because I'd lost some of that confidence years ago, thanks to that bitchy professor from undergrad.
Cassie and I have talked a lot about the possibility of a memoir, and I would absolutely love to write one someday.
And if you're a poet who's wondering whether to hire a publicist, I will say this: for me, it has been one of the best investments I've made in my career. Cassie has been an incredible advocate, and she's also a terrific editor.
If you could pick any other occupation to attempt, what would it be? Or, alternately, what do you think you would have ended up doing had you not been a writer?
Honestly, I'm already doing it.
By day, I lead teams through massive web modernization projects. Officially, I'm a web content designer, but it's so much more than that. I get to lead terrific people and government organizations through these huge initiatives where we're constantly asking: What does the user need? What problem are they trying to solve? Where are they getting stuck? How are they moving through the experience?
And then we design around that. The funny thing is, I think it's incredibly poetic. It's a lot like formal poetry. You're figuring out patterns, and then you're deciding when to break them. You're getting into people's heads. You're thinking about what they know, what they don't know yet, what they're expecting, and how they're feeling.
So, if I could choose another occupation...I'd choose the one I already have.
What made you write, as opposed to doing something else?
At first, honestly, I think it was just being a teenager who needed an outlet.
Looking back, it's so interesting that I was the black sheep, the scapegoat, in my family. It was deeply dysfunctional and scary. And I don't think I understood it at the time, but now I realize writing, along with my mouth and my sass and my tendency to challenge fucked-up so-called norms that were seriously dangerous, was a very healthy way of responding to a fucked-up world.
But it's funny, because I'm also doing something else. I don't really see writing and the rest of my life as separate. There are so many things in the world that can be approached poetically.
For me, poetry isn't just something I do. It's a way of paying attention.
What was the last great book you read? What was the last great film?
The last great book I read was Rachel Eliza Griffiths' memoir, The Flower Bearers.
I had the pleasure of knowing both Rachel and Aisha Moon in graduate school and later, when I lived in Provincetown, and they'd visit. So there's that personal connection. But even if I didn't know Rachel...that memoir brought me to my knees. I cried at the end.
As for film, I love, love, love movies.
I'd probably say Calibre. It's not exactly a cheerful recommendation, but it's as close to a perfect film as I've seen in a long time. It's seamlessly edited, incredibly suspenseful, and yes, deeply disturbing.
I have severe ADHD, so I'm usually doing at least two things at once when I'm watching a movie. I'm not kidding when I say I sat through the entire thing on the edge of my couch and never looked away.
That really says something.
What are you currently working on?
I'm so happy you asked.
Literally just yesterday, I sat down thinking I was tinkering with what might eventually become a manuscript. I thought, "Okay, maybe this is kind of almost book-length." Then I started going back through my newer poems, and I thought, "Wait..."
I suddenly realized they all shared this underlying structure that I hadn't even consciously intended. Monarch butterflies. Migration. Coming and going. Leaving. Fire. Even the color orange kept showing up. It was the weirdest thing. Then, I started pulling in more poems, and then more poems, and I just kept thinking, "How did I not see this before?"
As of yesterday, I have sixty polished pages of what I think is my next poetry manuscript. It's called Chaos Theory, and I'm just unbelievably excited about it.
I love those moments when you realize your subconscious has been writing a book long before your conscious mind catches up.
12 or 20 (second series) questions;
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