The ‘lull’ and how it can nurture the creative force within.

Decorated kumquat tree

It’s been four days since I returned from Vietnam’s verdant central coast, and my feet have yet to touch the ground. I feel caught in a vortex, suspended between two realities. My heart aches for a place I didn’t know I would love so much and for home, that familiar soil where everything feels safe and comfortable. I’ve travelled moderately thus far, dipping in and out of places in between work and the humdrum of daily life, enjoying both sun and sea, rain and bitter cold. However, some trips just stand out on their own, leaving a lasting impression that changes you for the better, often unexpectedly. I’ve been fortunate enough to have three such trips in my life: my first solo journey to Bali at fifteen before the world went topsy-turvy and those awful bombings occurred, my wedding in Mallorca and Scotland just before the chaos of COVID, and this recent adventure in Vietnam for my first writer’s retreat in the beautiful hamlet Cẩm Thanh, Hội An situated in Quảng Nam Province.

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Hội An, as I recently discovered, translates to a ‘peaceful meeting place’ in Sino-Vietnamese. In retrospect, that’s precisely what happened; I arrived fully at my authentic self—peacefully, happily, and with open arms, ready to embrace the unknown. It felt like soulful medicine, akin to cataracts being removed from my eyes, allowing me to see the world anew. Upon my return, I felt refreshed and alive, with colour coursing my veins and a delightful premise for a new story suddenly emerging out of thin air like an epiphany had struck.

I think, in all honestly, the beauty of this recent venture lies somewhere in the balance between sightseeing, hard work, and living without a schedule—everything weaving seamlessly together, creating a beautiful ebb and flow. Most nights, I worked late, pouring out everything I had seen and experienced, recharging for the workshops and writer meet-ups the following day. During my free time, I took full advantage of the old, rusty bicycle provided by the villa, cycling through the streets with the wind in my hair and feeling completely free in this new, foreign land. In those precious moments, I gazed meditatively at the endless rice paddies, their iridescent green gleaming and dotted with white stalks—images reminiscent of various Asian artworks I had seen and my old, gilded room divider back home, purchased from an antique dealer years ago. Alongside all this was a strange mystical presence that crept under my skin, filling me with awe and fascination and akin to some bizarre reunion, like the things I had lost in my life were coming back to find me. This sensation was particularly evident in the potted kumquat quasi-Christmas trees that decorated every shop, café, and restaurant and the courtyards of the narrow Vietnamese houses during the Lunar New Year, which coincided with my visit. Adorned with red ribbons and tassels—colours that symbolize good luck and fortune—these trees instantly reminded me of my long-deceased Australian grandmother, who had once had a similar tree in her garden in Wagga Wagga. It was the only other time I had seen such a substantial shrub bearing tiny, bouncy, ball-sized fruit, which I remembered, produced a delicious tart jam enjoyed with butter on Tip Top bread. Shoulder to shoulder with other strange dreams and an encounter with an ominous Witch moth, my grandmother would make a somewhat audacious reappearance during a later tarot card reading on the coconut palm-lined shores of An Dang Beach, leaving me feeling a tad spooked, to say the least. Vietnam’s celebratory Tết and The Year of the Snake no doubt having a profound effect on me.

Embracing the frizzy hair in Hoi An's old town

In addition to the spine chills and the epic scenery, my trip produced an array of new and wonderful friendships, including Tam and Duc, who worked tirelessly on their narrow vegetable patch along a rice paddy just outside their café—one I frequented daily, showcasing permaculture at its finest with its yellow marigolds and red flowering cacti to ward off insects. I later bumped into Tam in another part of town, where she honked her moped as I cycled by, prompting us to stop and chat.

Then there was Huy—a young, handsome photographer and driver eager to learn English and connect with others. He was incredibly kind and open, pouring out his heart and soul to me as we drove back to my accommodation after I'd farewelled my mother at the airport, who had come for a brief visit. He reminded me of how lucky I was to have her, contrasting it with the tragic loss of his own mother, who passed away suddenly two years prior at just fifty-two. His story tugged at my heartstrings, and I comforted him as we navigated the chaos of Da Nang, tears misting his eyes as he apologised for his emotional outburst.

Tam and Duc across the road from their cafe

Last but not least was the joy of my newfound writer’s family, all gathered under the same roof at the enchanting An Villa. We were a diverse group, representing many nationalities, each with unique histories and cultures. Despite our differences, we became instant and lifelong friends, wishing each other the best of luck and success and promising to stay in touch.

There has been much to reflect on and process since returning home to Australia. My key takeaways being, that I love dragon fruit and egg coffee, and it’s perfectly okay to let go for a moment, stop and smell the roses, and dive headfirst into the lull.

Now, you might be wondering, what on earth is “the lull”? Well, it's a term I learned a few years back while attending a screenwriting course at the National Institute of Dramatic Arts (NIDA) in Sydney. It refers to a momentary pause or a brief sidestep from our often-hectic routines that can stifle creativity. Like me, you might have worked on a project for a long time and found it hard to see the bigger picture. You may also feel stuck in a rut or face a good or bad crossroads requiring a decision. The key is to take a break and step away from your medium—be it a canvas, laptop, typewriter, pen, paper, or simply the daily grind. The magic lies in the return, allowing you to see everything with fresh eyes and a renewed sense of clarity. This isn’t about giving up or abandoning anything; instead, it’s about recharging and gaining a new perspective on whatever it is you're focusing on. It’s like breathing new life into everything or—less romantically—just giving it a bit of a spit-and-polish to make it shine.

J x

Getting back to work and keeping those memories of Vietnam close at heart with bamboo in a cloisonné vase gracing my desk.