Dear Readers,

When we launched Waterwheel Review, we were keen to explain why we were so moved and motivated by the image of the waterwheel. Water stands for language, an ever flowing, renewable source; the waterwheel, an engine of labor, circles through, lifting words and then dropping them back into the running stream. Our magazine is a mill, we said, where the waterwheel powers writing and publishing. “We want—and need—to make things.”

For a couple of years, now, we have known that we can’t make enough of our own things while we give so much energy to the work of others. We have had to cut substantially the time and attention devoted to our own writing, and mostly we have been glad to do it, determined to find a way to repay our own work in the end. We never did find that way.

If we could quit our jobs and earn that income publishing this magazine, we would take that deal in an instant. But that’s not the world we live in. For many, many months we have known this, but we couldn’t accept it until now. And thank goodness for that.

Every single issue of this magazine has been a wonder that transported and enchanted us. We can’t say we gloried in every moment. We read or edited or built the site at times while sick, exhausted, grieving—that’s the nature of any publication. But we damn well gloried in every word, every paired image and sound.

Four years and thirty-six issues: What an honor to publish our contributors. What a privilege to offer stunning work to our readers. We must use the word pleasure, too, always rolled out to accompany “honor and privilege,” but pleasure isn’t strong enough, nor is gratitude nor joy nor blessing. For once we find ourselves at a loss for words to express precisely what it has meant to keep this waterwheel turning.

Maybe this will do it: How many times does anyone ever fully achieve the glittering, half-glimpsed vision floating above; that winking, flirting piece of art we ache to manifest? For the three of us, precisely this once.

We will keep making things and so will you. We started this magazine with the image of the waterwheel and a Jean Rhys quote, and we will end in the same way, as we thank you for reading and submitting, and wish you and yours all the very best:

Listen to me. All of writing is a huge lake. There are great rivers that feed the lake, like Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky. And there are mere trickles, like Jean Rhys. All that matters is feeding the lake. I don’t matter. The lake matters. You must keep feeding the lake.

—Claire, Suzanne, Cheryl

September 1, 2024: Waterwheel Review will stay online for the foreseeable future. It remains as it looked for the final June 2024 issue.

Waterwheel Review

Literature Without Labels

Archives for December 2022

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From the Editors | Issue #22

December 2022

From the Editors

No one suspects the days to be gods. —Ralph Waldo Emerson

profile of three women walking on sandy beach in winter

Issue 22 is cypress, river water, a single chord of music. Martin McGowan pays tribute to a wooden sculpture in “Hinoki – ‘breath of life’”—a wallop on the gallery floor. In “What You Should Know (The Nile),” John Bradley gives us one startling image after another but we’re fondest of the quiet, silted vowels. Air reverberates like white flame in “The final chord” by Andrew Oram, another meditation on art. The days are gods because they’re made of details like these.

—Claire, Suzanne, Cheryl 

Join Our Growing Community

We’re in our third season here at Waterwheel Review, and we couldn’t be happier. But we have big dreams. Right now we have two ways—in addition to being an author or maker—to be a part of our labor of love.

1. Sign up for our newsletter.

You’ll know when each issue goes live and learn news about WWR and our authors.

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2. Support literature without labels.

All expenses are out of pocket. Any help goes to our submissions manager and media. We would LOVE to one day pay authors, hold contests, speak at conferences… (slow down, deep breath). Thank you for supporting literature and art!

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Who made it? | Issue #22

Who made it?

December 2022 | Issue #22

With “Hinoki – ‘breath of life’” by Martin McGowan

“Just Breathe” by Pearl Jam.
© God’s Prototype, The Nature of Man: Lungs, by Ian Crawley.
“American Beauty” by Thomas Newman.

With “What You Should Know (The Nile)” by John Bradley

“The Sound of Nile” by AAM World Music.
Feather, 2014, oil on canvas, 48 x 60 in, by Katherine Ace.

With “the final chord” by Andrew Oram

“Final chords of Bruckner’s Symphony No. 4” by the Vienna Philharmonic and Herbert Blomstedt.
La Sultane Bleue, 1910, costume sketch for the ballet Schéhérazade, by Léon Bakst.

Acknowledgments

Background photo of Reclining Buddha in Gal Vihara, Polonnaruwau by Lankapic via Wikicommons.

Background image of the Nile River via Google Earth.

Background photo of the Sydney Opera House by Nick-D via Wikicommons.

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Editor’s Notebook: All hail the Sloth-beast!

Editor’s Notebook: All hail the Sloth-beast!

December 2022

orange and grey swirl with little bubbles like dishwater grease

We’re BACK with another essay in our series, 7 Sins of the Writing Life: Sloth.

“I’m appalled that Sloth is not simply having a lazy day,” writes Cheryl. I’m appalled, too! Wait… what??

By ignoring our writing we cut ourselves off from the rewards that stem from this deep thinking and creativity, and we fail a community that needs the respite of a compelling story after a long, hard day, an essay that helps them feel less alone, or a poem that provides courage during a tough time.

I’m not sure anyone needs my writing but me, and, because he has to live with me, my husband. I have proved many times that if I don’t maintain a regular writing practice, I begin to disintegrate. Specifically, I get over-sensitive, spacey, and irritable. I get twitchy. Writing keeps me sane and Sloth is my enemy.

To rescue myself from a protracted period of Sloth this summer, I started doing weekly Zoom meetings with one of the most talented writers I know, my friend Annaliese. We’re both tackling an unfamiliar genre and neither of us is used to feeling uncertain about how to manage a project. Our meetings allow us to get past hesitance, confusing material, and rabbit holes.

We take turns reading aloud whatever we wrote in the preceding week, reflect on what we heard, process questions and plans about what’s next, and then sign off with good wishes for the writing week ahead. I can’t say the Sloth-beast doesn’t rear up between these meetings but she damn well knows to take a seat in the back when the deadline is coming on hard. Six months into this particular Zoom habit, I’m deep into my project, and the only things twitching are my eager fingers, desperate for the keyboard.

Cheryl, who talks about how to train the Sloth-beast in her essay, approves.

I asked Annaliese what she thinks of the deadly sin of Sloth with regard to writing and writing practice. Like Cheryl, she quickly found her way to the beast:

[S]loth always means to me a dragging, a sluggishness, reluctance to stick with things. It’s tied up in the whole thing of work bringing one closer to some kind of enlightenment. Clearly a judgment word.

But in truth I think of sloth the animal (not a concept but a living, breathing being) as, yes, slow-moving, but not in a willful, negative, destructive way. It’s the sloth’s way and it’s consistent and tenacious, and that pace presents challenges and dangers and yet they keep on keeping on. They show up—no matter how hard that may be. Of course, that’s the human perspective. The sloth is not slow to him/herself. And “slow” is not a negative thing. We live in such a fast-paced society/world/orbit these days, we have forgotten the value of showing up, of being, of breath and love and joy and generosity.

We have to show up, no matter how hard that may be.

If you’re feeling a little bit of Sloth—what writer isn’t?—and you’re fortunate enough to have an Annaliese in your life, give her a call. But of course there are so many ways to train the Sloth-beast to help you show up. Let Cheryl tell you how she did it.

May you indulge and enjoy all writing sins forevermore. And may you write well today.

—Claire Guyton