I was invited on a getaway to Amanoi during the final days of March, when Vĩnh Hy Bay is at its most breathtaking. The light is soft and golden, the sea calm and clear, and time seems to slow down just enough to let you breathe a little deeper.
But this trip wasn’t just about a luxury vacation. The true heart of it was a workshop: Writing and Drawing with Trịnh Lữ.
To many Vietnamese readers, Trịnh Lữ needs no introduction. He’s the translator behind beloved literary works like Norwegian Wood, Life of Pi, and The Centaur in the Garden. For the past four years, he’s also been a cherished guest on Have A Sip, always appearing around Lunar New Year — like a ritual of presence and reflection.
Still, knowing we’d be spending time with him in person, in a place as serene as Amanoi, stirred in me a quiet thrill — that mix of awe, warmth, and a little bit of nervous joy. The kind you feel when you’re about to meet someone whose words have shaped the way you see the world.
Everything That Matters in Writing Happens… Before You Write
There were just about 9 of us, mostly journalists, gathered around Trịnh Lữ for this workshop on writing. Ironically, we didn’t end up writing anything. All the questions circled back to the same curiosity: How do you write well?
He simply replied: The most important part of writing… is knowing what you want to say — long before you ever begin.
To him, writing isn’t a matter of logic or technique. Words aren’t something you “craft.” They’re vessels — wrapping around emotions that have already formed. Feeling comes first. Words follow. That’s why his translations and writing have such natural rhythm, quiet elegance, and a tenderness that lingers.
Trịnh Lữ has spent decades translating literary classics like Life of Pi and Norwegian Wood, offering Vietnamese readers windows into new worlds of emotion and culture. At more than 30 pages per day, Life of Pi was in fact, the fastest book he has ever translated.
He’s shared that he only accepts a project if, while reading in English, the Vietnamese already echoes in his mind. When that happens, the words flow like music. And that’s the bar: the words must sound like music.
I thought a lot about that space “before writing” — the time he holds sacred. Here amongst the untouched beauty of Vĩnh Hy Bay, where the Núi Chúa cliffs slip in and out of the forest’s deep green, merging into the vivid blue of the sea, witnessing sunrise is an unmatched experience.
And so, like a little ritual, I always set my alarm for 4:30 a.m., no matter how many times I’ve visited. Sometimes, I even dream I’ve already woken up — afraid I might miss the most important moment of the day.
I make a steaming cup of coffee and sit silently before the villa’s still, dark pool. At 5 a.m. sharp, the pool lights go off. Then it begins — a violet glow, turning soft orange behind Dolphin Rock. Cool sea air kisses your skin. And then, like a sliver of light breaking through a crack, the sun rises slowly. That golden, miraculous light of a new day gilds everything in its path.
If sunrise is a performance, it’s a short one. But it’s the waiting - the silent, sacred stillness before dawn - that leaves the deepest impression. It wrote something into you, even before you begin to write anything.
At The Edge Of Truth
Later that day, with a gentle breeze rustling the leaves, we gathered again — this time, for a painting session. However in reality, the landscape before us was already a painting itself. Every direction you turned, it was beautiful. The hard part was trying to translate that beauty — what your eyes see and your heart feels — into color, on a canvas.
Most of us were beginners, clumsy with a brush. Even a HD camera phone, which we thought could capture anything in details, did no justice to what we were seeing.
What struck me most was that Trịnh Lữ did not actually “teach” us how to draw. Instead, he simply sat with us and painted — just like any of us, quietly yet gently.
Of course, for someone who’s been drawing for years, this was no challenge. But still, we couldn’t help but gasp at his work - it was so lifelike, yet soft in a way only he could capture. He even painted the sample painting we were all copying from - in otherwords, putting a painting inside his own painting. It made everything feel intimate, real, touchable.
"People sometimes ask me to write an essay about a painting or an exhibition,” he told us, “but if I don’t find something worth saying, I simply can’t write.” He recalled a panel he once joined on the “revival of Indochine art.” But as he said, “They weren’t really interested in art — only in reviving the market.” When art becomes a commodity, it loses its essence.
“When I write,” he said, “I always imagine who I’m telling the story to. There has to be at least one person I’m speaking to. Only then does the tone become real.” That, I believe, is why his writing moves people - each of his words carries honesty and a deep connection with the reader. This is what we also see in top-notch artists - they only reach their highest potential when they step on stage imagining the one person they long for most, sitting quietly in the crowd.
By then, he had finished his painting and wandered off. The rest of us returned to our unfinished canvases. I had chosen to draw just a single tree, with tangled roots and leaves that made it quite tricky to draw. It’s the kind you'd find everywhere around Amanoi — step outside and they’re lining the path, brushing your shoulders.
Actually these little winding roads were built around the trees to let the forest stay where it always was. So walking through Amanoi feels like walking through a wild, ancient grove. The air is still. The scent of trees, clean and cool.
It was until then that I realized, the painting wasn’t for anyone else. It was for me to feel the calmness that was blooming from within, and the painting was simply how I held onto it.
48 Hours - And Something More
Time slows down at Amanoi.
We walk slower. We breathe deeper.
And so, this time with Trịnh Lữ felt like a rare and weighty gift.
After both workshops, we gathered for dinner as the evening came and the wind picked up. Candles flickered, waves crashed softly against the cliffs. We sat by the sea, wrapped in warm conversation. Then almost like a whisper, he leaned in and said:
"Shall we came back here and did a few talks together some day?"
