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

Jefferson Navicky

Three Women Writing Around My Head

by Jefferson Navicky

September 2020

There’s a constellation of women writing around my head. How wonderful. It’s what I always wanted. One is sitting on the floor with her back against the wall. One is sitting at a folding table. And one is sitting in a comfy chair from IKEA. They’re all so intently working. I wonder if they’re writing about me. Shouldn’t the constellation of women writing around my head indeed be writing about me? I don’t think that’s an impossible thing to ask. It’s just the right amount of attention I require, just the right ratio. I wonder if I could ask them to read aloud what they’ve written about me. It doesn’t have to be flattering! Although I wouldn’t mind if it was. Anything would be fine! Tell me anything. What do your powers of observation/intuition tell you about my style and my slouchy posture. Do tell, my trio of scribes, what should I know about myself?

Woman #1 says Art. Do art. Make art. Be art. Is that it, I ask. She says let it change you. Let your life fall apart. Redefine yourself, be brave. Wow, she’s a lot braver than I am. But okay, gulp, I get it. I can work with that. But she goes on, forget about your 401K and the rest of your retirement. Rack up credit card debt. Move to Eastport. Divorce your spouse. Get a motorcycle. Take to the road. Whoa, I say, that’s a bit much. Going a bit too far, don’t you think? I like my retirement and I hate credit card debt, and I definitely don’t want to divorce my wife. Eastport I could handle. You gotta be prepared for it all, she says. You wrote about all that stuff, I ask.

Woman #2 says Work. Do the circuit. Create new neural pathways. Log the miles. Travel from galaxy to galaxy, and don’t stop to pee. Don’t let yourself think, make yourself a little crazy. It’ll be good for you. Really, I ask, that’s what you were writing about? I liked it better when I thought you were writing about my style, I say. Nope, she says, Work. Gotta do it. Don’t be a pussy. I can’t believe you just called me a pussy, I say. Get used to it. Hmmm, I don’t know about this. Should I even keep going?

Woman #3 says Love. I cringe a little and wait for the other shoe to drop. No, silly, she says, Love. Love’s not like that. Love buys you single cupcakes at the store even though they’re ridiculously expensive and waste tons of packaging. Love says, why don’t you come take a nap, forget about art and work, you look tired. Okay, I say, I could get used to this. Love says, I’ve got your number. Love says you might end up doing things you’d never thought you’d do, but you know what? What, I ask, and still think something bad might happen. You know what, you’ll like it, Love says. You do crazy things for love, it’s true, and it’s worth it. Oh, I say, so what you’re saying is—Hey, silly, she interrupts me, why don’t you put down that pen and come over here.

Jefferson Navicky is the author of the poetic novella, The Book of Transparencies; the story collection, The Paper Coast; and the chapbooks, Uses of a Library and Map of the Second Person. His work appears in Smokelong Quarterly, Electric Literature, Hobart, Tarpaulin Sky, and Fairy Tale Review. His honors include two Maine Literary Awards and first prize in the 2019 Maine Postmark Poetry Contest.