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

James Landwehr

What Is It?

by James Landwehr

May 2022

It is still a ways away. It is going to go away, you know. It is still there. It is, or it isn’t. It is in
the mail. It is in the console. It is the perfect fit. It is me versus you. It is something we can all
look back to. It is forward-looking. It is around here somewhere. It is the American Dream. It is
far from my reach. It is only six weeks until raise time. It’s not any kind of guarantee. It is
destined for nowhere. It is written in Sanskrit. It is translated to mean something unknown. It is
in the works. It’s not in the cards. It is on my dresser. It’s not that. It’s not the way that goes. It’s
not their best work. It’s not that funny, is it? It’s not Fleetwood Mac. It’s not nice to be right all
the time. It’s not nice to boast. It’s not a miracle to me. It’s not pure. It’s not the worst thing that
could happen. It’s not who you think it is. It’s not over there, I said! It’s not impossible to go
back to school at your age. It’s not that far on the map. It’s not something you could actually get
a job doing. It’s not any of your business. It’s not my first rodeo. It’s not too bad going down. It
is third and long at the Rams’ 38 yard line. It is all a big money thing. It is guaranteed 2-day
delivery. It is neither of yours now, goddammit! It is to be read along with my will. It is such a
waste of time. It is at least something. It is over there, I said! It is neither the best, nor the worst.
It is nothing compared to yours. It is snowing! It is time to go potty, Dog Dog. It is hell getting
old. It is cold in here. It’s not cold in here, dammit! It’s not on this map anywhere. It’s not yours.
It is impossible to hear in this room. It is winding down. It is incomprehensible to me. It is poetry
wearing winter camouflage. It is getting late. It’s not like it could go on forever, could it?

James Landwehr is the author of the memoirs Cretin Boy (Burning Bulb Publishing), The Portland House: A 70’s Memoir, and Dirty Shirt: A Boundary Waters Memoir. His poetry collections include Written Life, Reciting from Memory, On a Road, Thoughts from a Line at the DMV, and Genetically Speaking: Poems on Fatherhood. He was the 2018/2019 poet laureate for the Village of Wales in Wisconsin.