What to Write About When There’s Nothing Good to Write About

A Reluctant Lesson in Mindfulness.

I came to Mũi Né ready to love it.

After the chaos of Ho Chi Minh – where I got scammed by a taxi driver within ten minutes of landing and spent two weeks sleeping on a classroom sofa with a rooster shrieking directly into my dreams – I figured I’d earned a soft place to land.

I imagined beach walks, quiet cafés, maybe a bit of healing. White sand dunes, gentle surf. Instead, I got crumbling concrete, rundown empty restaurants, and a main street that feels like a game of life-or-death Frogger. Turns out Mũi Né is a lot more Mũi Nah.

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It’s not awful, to be fair. It’s just not… anything. The beach is long, but most of it is fronted by deserted resorts, their sun-bleached umbrellas slumped in the sizzling heat, the murky surf churning up sand. The cafés face the traffic, not the sea. And everything feels vaguely abandoned – like the town’s potential packed up and left years ago.

To say I was disappointed would be generous. To top it off, I quickly came down with a cold and somehow managed to wrench my shoulder into a state of near-constant agony.

Karma, it seems, had decided I still had a few accounts to settle.

I moped. I ached. I entertained several dramatic exit strategies. But then, slowly, something steadied.

I don’t need much to be content. A safe place to sleep, a café with half-decent coffee and occasional wifi – that’s usually enough.

And luckily, on that front Mũi Né was up to the challenge.

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My guesthouse is decent: friendly hosts, a soft bed, a working air conditioner, and a tropical garden that hums with locals and tourists alike.

It should be enough.

And it almost is.

But even here, the edges fray.

There’s a flea-bitten, three-legged cat that yowls at me all day. A love-sick gecko that barks all night. And as I sit here now, typing with my one good arm, a few determined ants are climbing up my leg.

Truth be told, one more glitch could be enough to send me spiralling.

The heat. The noise. The aching shoulder. The slow, steady erosion of whatever resolve I thought I had.

It wouldn’t take much.

Just a little tilt – and I’d be gone.
Lost in the swamp of my own despair.

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When I feel myself slipping – into frustration, into self-pity – there’s really only one place to go.

And the good news is: it’s always available.

It’s right here, right now.

A moment of mindfulness.

A shift toward gratitude.

That’s the antidote.

The frangipani tree drops a single petal onto the cracked tiles in front of me. A bee wobbles past, heavy with nectar. Somewhere nearby, the gecko barks once more and falls silent.

For a second, my mind stops racing.
Thoughts begin to settle.
The heat holds me.

Nothing has changed. The town is still weird. It’s still too hot. My shoulder still aches. The ants are still persistent.

But for now, I’m just here. And for the first time since I landed, I’m not trying to be anywhere else.

That need for things to be different eases.

The tension lets go.

And there it is – the breath that wouldn’t come.

Finally, it exhales.

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I won’t leave Mũi Né with any great stories – no revelations, no grand adventures – but hopefully I’ll leave a little calmer than I arrived, and a little more grateful for the quiet moments I nearly missed.

Even the ones punctuated by a lovesick gecko.

Jay.

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P.S. My novel Chasing Ghosts is available now, if you're in the mood for more wandering, wondering, and reluctant wisdom.

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Here’s what one reader had to say:

“Such a joy to read! The author takes us with him on a journey of experience and discovery that is relatable, fun, and genuinely emotional...
His writing style, while easily accessible, gives ample opportunity for self reflection and personal discovery. This is a book I would recommend to anyone who has embarked on a version of the eternal search for truth, or who’s just looking for a great story presented by a talented author.”