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.

November 1, 2020 By Cheryl Wilder

Editor’s Note Issue #3

November 2020

Editor’s Note

cheryl wilder smiling outside closeup

It’s November of a leap year. November of 2020, the year “Blursday” became a colloquialism. November: the month that turns us toward late fall. The days don’t grow shorter as much as they turn darker. Since mid-March, I’ve spent most of my time at home. Even so, I welcome the season’s encouragement to hunker inside or around a fire in my backyard.

It’s also an election year. Dualism dominates news and conversation. We’re either for or against, championing this or that. Duality is necessary. Ideas and values need to be distilled into categories in order to cast our votes.

But for me, the language of election season is difficult. I like the “or” space, the gray area between two things. It’s a place to slow down, and witness the nuances of moments that make up daily life. With so much going on this year, and big decisions being made, it’s hard to get to the “between” space that is my respite.

Thank goodness I can find those spaces elsewhere.

In the November issue, our authors find the friction, exhilaration, and tension in the gray. They show our everyday moments—from playing in the yard as kids to where we shop for groceries as adults. In these small spaces, they gently lead us to question, what is at cost?

I haven’t done much since the pandemic began, but Blursday is one marathon day after another. Most everyone I know is extra tired this year. For this reason, I look forward to winter, the season of dormancy, when activity naturally slows. Election season will be over. 2020 will come to a close. I’m hoping for a lot more gray space to fill my days. But if it doesn’t, I know where to find some.

Cheryl Wilder