by Leah Duarte
After taking a break from submissions to develop my poetry manuscript, in September of 2025, I published several poems in a literary magazine for the first time in two years. Following such a long pause, returning to publication felt different. Having these pieces selected helped soothe my fears that my earlier publications were lightning strikes that would not repeat, but even more importantly, the work I submitted this time was almost exclusively from my manuscript, and every accepted piece gave me hope that I might one day hold my published collection in my hands. I wanted to celebrate this milestone in the same way I saw so many others celebrate theirs: making a bit of fuss, taking pictures, carving out a brief moment where my achievements mattered in a way that anyone, not just fellow writers, could understand. For the first time, I started to consider what a visual representation of my poetry might look like, and if it could be achievable with my limited supplies and zero photography experience.
In the end, what this representation became was a series of photographs, some with myself modeling, and others using various household settings and little curiosities I have collected over time, that offered me a new perspective on both my work and myself as an artist. I have always loved photography but felt too afraid to try my hand at it until now; I defined myself as a writer, not particularly adept at any other art form. This experience has taught me that experimentation and play are invaluable when it comes to framing and reframing my writing, and that I can give myself permission to be imperfect or fumbling on the path to something new. There’s no right way, just whatever works well enough to reflect my own work back at me and anyone else who cares to look.
Most importantly, I now have something special and completely my own to look forward to every time my work is accepted. If you’re a writer who has had work published, you probably understand what I mean when I say the thrill of acceptance is painfully brief. We celebrate that initial acceptance email for a few minutes, maybe post about it on social media and receive some congratulations, and then the glow fades. If we’re lucky, we might get to celebrate again at a launch, but oftentimes that’s not the case. This little tradition of mine reminds me that my worth as an artist continues on after any acceptance or rejection, and that the choice to create and keep creating is always mine to make. The celebration doesn’t need to end for me, even if everyone else has moved on.
If you yourself are a writer interested in visual representations of your works, I have some advice after a few months of trial and error. First, read your work less like a writer or an editor, and more like you were asked to direct a short film or visual exhibition based on it. What images are sharpest, what are you visualizing as you read, what lingers in your mind’s eye once you’re done? Most importantly, which of these images are possible to recreate in a photo?
I’m deeply interested in the tension between poem and image, especially for my more speculative work. How can I get across the feeling of the fantastical, the apocalyptic, the otherworldly, without leaving my bedroom? For my poem “recipe for red custard,” many of the images are purposefully difficult to recreate: the piece depicts the subject’s imaginary grandmother, in her imaginary kitchen, cooking imaginary food. I chose to focus on the overall themes and small, accessible images: a cinnamon stick, pink flower petals, an old picture frame and a crochet piece that belonged to my own grandmother.
Second, get in there. At first, I did not want myself in the photos at all, but working with limited help, if any at all, meant that I needed to be my own model. I hand modelled for my poem “nursery” and slathered my hands in argan oil for “azeite / olive oil,” and I channeled my best Carrie White energy for “dearest” as I peered out of a closet. Eventually, I stopped feeling so self-conscious, and more like an active participant in my own art. Written work, especially once published, can begin to feel distant, like it belongs to everyone but the author. These photos and the memories they contain allow me to remain connected to my poems even after they fly from me.
Third, natural light is your best collaborator. If you’re not a naturally gifted or well-taught photographer or photo-editor (like me), if you have an ancient phone with a very old camera (like mine), and/or if your artificial lighting options are very old and very yellow (like mine), natural light is always the way to go. It makes every picture look more professional, eliminates any strange shadows, and gives you so much more control over your final image. This takes a bit of extra planning to get the timing right, but I’ve never regretted the extra work.
Fourth, make it fun. I try to plan my photography sessions for when friends are visiting, both because the extra hands are beyond useful and because it’s an activity that doesn’t usually come around. How often do we get the chance to collaborate on something creative and low-pressure with people we care about, with no rules or limits beyond our own imaginations and resources? I’ve crouched in the first snow of the year in a massive fur coat while my friend snapped pictures of me through dead parsley plants, poured soy milk into goblets, and learned the exact angle to lie on the floor to make my hand look sufficiently, creepily lax.
All of this to say: make a little more fuss to celebrate yourself and your creative milestones. Writing isn’t often very fun, the journey to publishing even less so, and the good moments tend to slip away too quickly. Take a picture, throw a party, find something strange or funny or silly to commemorate the moment. More than anything, I hope you have fun.
Leah Duarte is a Portuguese-Canadian poet and fiction writer. She is a graduate of the University of Toronto’s MA in English program, where her focus on diasporic narratives and women in speculative fiction shaped her poetic focus on diasporic distance and the violence of female identity. Her recent work has appeared in The /tƐmz/ Review, untethered magazine, and The Four Faced Liar, among others. Her poetry has received a 2023 Best of the Net nomination, and her flash fiction piece “Passengers” won the 2022 gritLIT Youth Flash Fiction contest. She is currently working on her debut poetry collection intertwining Portuguese folklore, religious themes, representations of mental illness, and depictions of girlhood through a speculative lens, funded by the Ontario Arts Council and the Mississauga Arts Council.
The views and opinions expressed in blog posts are those of the authors and do not necessarily reflect the views or positions of all WiT members.
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