M.F.A. in Nonfiction

Melani Martinez, M.F.A. ’05, published a hybrid memoir in September 2024 called The Molino, about the tortilla factory her family operated in Tucson for nearly 70 years. The book began as her M.F.A. manuscript at Goucher.

What was that experience of writing a memoir like for you? Do you touch on similar topics in your other work?

Though writing and sharing personal stories has been a challenge over the past two decades, I know that the topics I’ve chosen for this book have sustained me. Faith, family, and processing through periods of loss will always be with me. Nearly all of my work as a writer and teacher weaves in and around these ideas, especially as they connect to home. My home is Tucson and the Sonoran Desert, and I guess I have always been trying to tell the story of the Borderlands.

What made you decide to work on your manuscript and choose the Goucher program?

I made it through my undergrad by majoring in the subject I knew would keep me engaged—creative writing—but I didn’t think I’d go further in school. I was clueless about graduate school and didn’t really know what I was doing, or why, when I started applying. Being a first-generation college graduate, I had no immediate models for what I was supposed to do with a degree. Though I had accomplished something new for my family, I still felt completely unprepared to be anything, much less a writer. I imagined that real writers must know much more than I did. 

I didn’t know anything about Goucher except that it was a low-residency program, which meant I didn’t have to leave my home to attend (my only criterion for a graduate program). Getting accepted to Goucher was a huge world shift for me. I had never been to Maryland. I had never been surrounded by writers, scholars, and professionals. I was one of the only students in my class from the other side of the country. There was some culture shock for me. In the end, it seemed as though I hadn’t chosen Goucher, but that Goucher had chosen me. Whether I understood it or not, I was where I was supposed to be.

What impact did mentorship have on the shaping of your project? 

My mentors were wonderful. They made me feel like a valid writer and storyteller. I didn't understand how to join or belong to a writing community, but they modeled it for me, and with patience. Perhaps even more important than sharing tools of the craft (that I still reference in my work decades later), they provided an ear for my voice and an eye for my style. I suddenly had an audience—an incredibly skilled and knowledgeable audience—who wanted me to succeed. That level of support, though somewhat limited by time and place, was never lost on me. 

How do you feel about your creative network as a writer of color? Do you make efforts to nurture that? 

I’ve been in many writing and academic environments that didn’t reflect my identity. In those spaces, I had experiences of confusion and self-doubt, and most of the time I didn’t know how to articulate what I was feeling or thinking. When I sought out writers of color and had opportunities to be in community with them, I was overwhelmed, in a good way. Those communities continue to help me recognize how we often devalue the ways of knowing and languages of my people and other people of color. When I now find myself in those familiar cycles of fear and shame, I know where to find grace. I pray my words never forget where my voice comes from. 

What’s on the creative horizon for you?

Before I was a writer, I was a flamenco dancer. I was practicing writing while also performing flamenco for many years, so for me they sometimes feel like two sides of the same story. But when the pandemic happened, I put my shoes away and haven’t danced since. I’ve accepted that as my writer self gets more attention, the dancer in me is fading away, but I’m dreaming of ways flamenco can still be in my body and in my voice. I’ll have to wait and see what I’m chosen for next.