A Writer’s Gratitude: How San Miguel Keeps Inspiring New Stories

After October's whirlwind visit from Donna—where we practiced what we preach with daily roaming, rooftopping with the best of them, and of course, eating out—I’ve been inspired to leave my computer and step out more with my notebook.

There’s something about San Miguel that makes you want to be in it, not just observe it from a café window or a rooftop with a view, but on its streets, with its people, and in the little pockets of magic that surprise you around the next corner.

Which is how I came to discover Curado, a wonderful new spot where curated charcuterie and cheese boards are the name of the game. Slightly off the tourist path, it’s all artisanal yumminess—wines, vermouths, and warm, just-out-of-the-oven focaccia.

I was solo on a Thursday night, but no one ever stays alone in San Miguel for long. Within minutes, I was chatting with guys from LA who’d just gotten tattoos next door, reconnecting with a friend I hadn’t seen in months, and talking with the owners, Daniel and Alessio, about everything from cheese to creative projects to why this city has the gravitational pull it does.

I’d plonked down with my notebook and the seed of my next script. I had the premise, the character arcs, even the locations. What I didn’t have were names. And here’s the thing about names in screenwriting: they matter—at least to me. The right name unlocks a backstory, a secret, a metaphor for living.

So Daniel, Alessio, and their business partner from Chile, Elisa, it is. Alongside memories of my friend Karl, the cowboy–Michelin-star chef, all those strong Irish lassies we’ll call Moira, and my friend’s grandparents, Mercedes and Raoul who'll be the benevolent patriarchs in my story.

The Characters Who Become Real

On this Thanksgiving day, I’ve been thinking about gratitude, not just the obvious health, home, and the privilege of living between countries and cultures, but the wonderfully weird gifts that come with being a writer.

I’m grateful for the characters I’ve created while living in San Miguel. The ones who’ve turned my real-life events into hilarious cacao ceremonies, terrifying light-language rituals, and at least one rooftop marriage proposal.

And now Daniel, Alessio, and Elisa join the cast—though who they become on the page will have absolutely nothing to do with the real people who share their names. They might turn into gay café owners, Italian exchange students, bisexual digital nomads… or ghosts, bank robbers, or time travelers. Anything is possible. All I know is they were born between sips of Tempranillo and bites of focaccia.

Why We Should Thank Our Fictional Friends

Screenwriters spend a surprising amount of time with people who don’t technically exist. We know their coffee orders, their grudges, their strangest habits. We give them our courage and our chaos. We let them say the things we should have said—or definitely shouldn’t have.

And in return, they give us something too.

They spark connection. They stretch our imagination. They force us to see the world through different perspectives, to inhabit other minds, other circumstances, other possibilities. They remind us that creativity has its own momentum—that we can create meaning, shape chaos into structure, and give even our messiest moments a narrative arc that leads somewhere worthwhile.

And here in San Miguel, that creative spark feels like part of the air. Everyone’s building something—art, businesses, stories, new chapters of their lives. We populate our worlds with characters, fictional or otherwise, to make sense of the journey.

That night at Curado, surrounded by the hum of Spanish and English, the clink of wine glasses, the laughter of people building something together, I felt that familiar writer’s gratitude: the sense that life is constantly offering you material if you pay attention. That the real and the imagined feed each other in an endless loop.

The Practice of Presence

Donna’s visit reminded me of something simple: roaming isn’t just about wandering streets. It’s a mindset. A willingness to be sidetracked, surprised, interrupted by inspiration. In the immortal words of Mary Oliver, “When it’s over, I want to say: all my life I was a bride married to amazement.”

The best characters I’ve written have come from this kind of magical thinking—from surprise conversations, tiny observations that turned into ahas, and moments that snuck up on me and rearranged my perceptions.

So this Thanksgiving, I’m grateful for:

• Characters who teach empathy, who challenge assumptions, who inadvertently steal entire scenes.

• Antagonists who show that everyone is the hero of their own story.

• Supporting characters who prove there are no small parts.

• The blank page and the bravery to fill it.

• A city that refuses to let you sit on the sidelines.

• Friends who inspire adventure.

• Local spots that feel like home the moment you walk in.

• Tattoo shops next door that deliver unexpected plot twists.

• The magical way roaming leads to discovery.

• And Thursday nights that turn into new beginnings.

I’m grateful for the courage to keep showing up to the page. For the city that insists you live in it, not just pass through it. For friends who practice what they preach and inspire me to do the same. For small-business owners who create spaces that feel like home. For the way creativity begets creativity—how roaming leads to discovery, how a Thursday night with a notebook becomes the beginning of something you didn’t know you needed to write.

And I’m especially grateful that Daniel, Alessio, and Elisa, who are about to step into a story full of trouble and transformation.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a script to write. And it’s going to require more focaccia.

My Notebook of Chaos That Makes Sense to Only Me by Lorraine Flett