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.

May 1, 2021 By Cheryl Wilder

Editor’s Note | Issue #9

May 2021

Editor’s Note

cheryl wilder smiling outside closeup

I see a piece of art as a timestamp. With that in mind, the process of making art could look like working with a pan balance—before and after on either side of the fulcrum. The timestamp is a refined moment, a crisp reflection. And yet, the artist is never at rest, the scales in constant motion. The past, present, and future are in play.

This month’s issue marks the end of what we at Waterwheel Review call Season 1. We chose to publish nine months out of the year to ensure we get a break. Time to rest by a favorite body of water this summer. We also wanted the opportunity to reflect on our latest season and prepare for the upcoming one.

As editors and publishers, we’re finding our own balance: letting go, reassessing, and building; the pandemic adding a blurry lens to the process. It’s apropos that our May authors are doing the same.

The past comes alive in full color, texture, and flavor in Lisa Creech Bledsoe’s “While Looking for Eating Utensils in My Uncle’s Kitchen.” Belongings are memories and a family history that says, “All saved, passed down.” How do we decide what to keep and what to throw away? What if what remains are tools useful only to the craftsman?

Charlotte Friedman’s “Alams for Cleaning Out the Painter’s House” uncovers that oftentimes, it’s the past we want instead: “visit me tonight / I want to taste color / in my dreams.” But, at some point, we must move on.

“Like no one was ever here,” says a voice in Tamara Best’s “Snake Fence,” a piece that honors a story of which the speaker knows nothing, except what was left behind. And that is enough. Something was built. The past reflected onto the present.

May 1, 2021, is a timestamp. Each of our issues is a work of art, but the last issue of our first season provides closure. With each second, Season 1 is further in the past. The pandemic made it difficult for me to revel in the creation of each issue. So, before I move on, I’m going to hold the scales balanced and cherish the moment.

Cheryl Wilder