Little Times

A Conversation with Lily Nobel

I first encountered Lily Nobel’s work when I was working as the editor of another magazine (shout out So to Speak) about a year ago. That piece, just like this one, was wonderfully, unabashedly weird. When Lily told me she had a story about a character who gets asked on a date by a giant, ancient turtle, I knew we had to consider it. Upon reading the first draft of “83 Million Years,” I was certain it belonged with Chatterbox!. In the story, Lily moves so gracefully from the absurd, funny premise to thoughtful, somber reflections on loneliness and the passage of time. She beautifully captures the feeling of confusion and aimlessness that can accompany young adulthood while never allowing the story to become flat or pessimistic. 

I was grateful for the chance to sit down with Lily over Zoom to talk with her about art, ancient sea creatures, and the writing of “83 Million Years.” Below is a simplified transcript of that conversation, edited primarily to omit (some of) my ramblings and both of our innumerable uses of the word “like.” 

Kara Crawford: So, my first question is a very basic one. Out of all the creatures that you could have chosen to be the narrator's potential love interest, what made you settle on an ancient sea turtle?

Lily Nobel: I chose the ancient sea turtle because, first, well, I don't know a lot of ancient creatures, but the whole kind of story came into my mind when I was in the Smithsonian Natural History Museum in Washington, D.C. I had just fled a terrible internship situation living in New Jersey, and I was having to kind of totally change my plan for the next few months. And on my way out of there, I ended up stuck because of a snowstorm in Washington, D.C, so it kind of puts you in a bit of a fantastical mindset. And I saw the giant skeleton of the Archelon, the giant ancient sea turtle, and it was just, like this is fucking crazy, and I can't imagine how different my whole life would feel if I saw one of these in real life. Plus, it just fucking rules, you know? Like, it just rules.

KC: No, that makes total sense, thank you. That's so funny. It's funny that, in the story, the narrator sees one of those in the museum, and that is their reference point for the turtle. It's just, it's funny that you literally saw the same thing, essentially.

KC: So this story captures a certain kind of malaise and economic precarity very well, and every character, even the turtle, seems to be affected by those problems. The fact that everyone is doing rather poorly feels integral to the story somehow. So could you just speak a little bit about this decision? Why this phase of life?

LN: Yeah, well, it's the most boring answer in the world, which is that's where me and a lot of my friends and my cousin, who I'm very close to, are situated; where we're in school or about to graduate, kind of moving towards being financially independent, but when you're doing that, it's like, you don't have enough of your own money at any point. So you're just always kind of trying to keep it in order and balance, pursuing the things you're really passionate about by sitting down at the place you have to be for however many hours a week to get your fucking money so you can go do the other stuff, you know. So it's really familiar. 

But from a more artistic standpoint, a lot of what I read, or have been reading, or was reading at the time I originally wrote this, and when I was editing–it's a lot of work in the transgressive genre, spanning from the 70s to the 90s/early 2000s, where it's a lot of people in some sort of down situation with that feeling of malaise. But they're just battered with awfulness the entire time, and the language is just super rough, and the circumstances are rough, and no one ever gets a break. And for a while, that's what I was trying really hard to replicate, because I find that super compelling. Plus, I think a lot of people try to kind of replicate what they're reading a little bit, regardless of how much people admit it. But then I was realizing that's not what was coming naturally with this story, and with the more fantastical elements of it, such as the turtle. So, I had a lot of fun putting in those elements of more tenderness and lightness, even in this situation where a lot of people are kind of doing a bit shit in one way or another.

KC: Okay. This one's a lot. “83 Million Years” seems interested in the way people do (and do not) change over time. This is especially evident with the ancient sea turtle, as she is “pretty with the times, all things considered” and, on a more serious note, she says “I can’t go back. Time isolates you from all things and all things from each other.” We also see this theme among the narrator and their friend group. So, I'm curious, when you were going in to write this story, did you have a specific thesis in mind when it came to the way that time changes people? Or did your thoughts on this topic spring up and evolve naturally through the writing of the story?

LN: Yeah, no, that was entirely evolving over time. The whole story idea, which I thought of when I was talking about seeing the turtle in D.C., and then I was just taking the D.C. metro back to the hotel where I was staying and everything, I was just thinking that I like the idea of this annoyed woman getting really excited about going on a date with this amazing giant turtle, and kind of trying to process that, and seeing two kind of odd friends, and then the story ends. And I felt like that would just be sort of an interesting series of things to happen, and I hadn't written something that really involved so much character in a while, so that's what I was into at the time. But then when you're just thinking about, I don't know, what is the meaning of dating a giant turtle, or what is the meaning of an ancient sea turtle existing for that many unimaginable years. And I kind of started thinking about those kinds of evolutions over really long spans of time, and then also just the evolutions of little times, like the weird bridge between high school and college, or college and, everything you do after college, which is kind of where I'm situated. You're also undergoing an evolution that seems to go a lot more quickly for some people than others, and it's very hard to place yourself in. So, you're completely correct that I started with basic facts of the story, and then I was thinking more about the implications of those facts when the rest of it kind of came to me than, the other way around.

KC: I think in our conversation, you've been referring to the narrator as a woman, which I kind of assumed. But this question hinges on the fact that we don't 100% get a pronoun or a gender or a name for the narrator. It feels important to me that the narrator remains nameless and ostensibly genderless. To me, it seems like this might connect with the queerness and fluidity of the story (the narrator is attracted to both East and a giant, ancient, lady sea turtle; East was once in a sexual relationship with a spider statue; etc.) So, I guess my question is: what were your intentions with leaving the narrator nameless? And, also, I would love it if you could talk some more about your decision to write such a sexually fluid/open story.

LN: Yeah, honestly, I think a lot of this is coming more from the reader's side. I'm very interested to hear what people might think and take out of the story. But honestly, this thing, the nameless woman protagonist who never really gets addressed as a woman or with any pronoun or any huge tell, is just kind of what I've ended up doing in all my work, because I feel… I don't know, the default state for me is writing as a woman, and so, the default state of the narrator character is usually a woman. And until my best friend read one of my stories a little bit back, and he was like, “It's interesting the way you write about this male protagonist's attraction to men.” I never thought he might be a male protagonist, but I guess that's just how he read it as his default. And even if I wasn't intending that, I guess it could be an interesting way to place yourself in the story, and just allow people to kind of fit, if not themselves, their idea of an important person into that shape.

And then, as for the sexual fluidness, another part of it is just, all of my characters for a long time have been lesbians, or mostly lesbians, with the occasional weird little thing with a guy in their past or whatever. And I think there's just not enough stories with lesbians, where there's not a lot of discussion of being a lesbian or not trying to make some statement about lesbian joy, or the beauty of being queer, or anything related to pride, or anything related to shame. And instead it's just like a lesbian navigating a unique situation with her implicitly being a lesbian. But I guess I didn't think about the different dimensions of queerness there, and that's something I would love people to read into if there's the space for that, because just because I didn't think of it doesn't mean I will say it's not there.

KC: For sure! Just to follow up, was there a reason for the namelessness, though? Or is that just kind of your general mode of writing? 

LN: It's intentional, but for kind of a dumb reason. I just have a really hard time with names and names for characters, and every time I end up coming up with a name, especially if it's for a narrator or a protagonist, it sounds like something someone would be named in a YA book. Especially if you get a first and last name going, it's like, that's not real, that doesn't sound serious. And since I feel like not naming the narrator can maybe create some feeling of space in the story, I can get away with it easily and just not fuck with it, you know?

KC: Totally. Even if it wasn't intentional, I think it really does add to the fluidity of the story, which there’s so much of. We're not questioning that she's gonna go on a date with a turtle, we're not questioning that East wanted to fuck a spider statue. There are all these things that we're not questioning as readers, and I think the fact that this character feels more fluid adds to that, even if it wasn't 100% on purpose.

KC: Okay, this is my longest question. An aspect of the story that really struck me was that one of the main reasons for its length (over, 8,000 words) is all the asides, description, and character-building that you include. One such example is this bit: “I put on my new jacket, which my parents had sent me for my birthday. It made me look like I had a giant triangular torso and disproportionately skinny legs. I never had the thin thing a lot of vegans have going on.” Maybe the audience doesn’t need to know this in order for the story to work, but the texture included here, and elsewhere, adds something rich and lovely to the piece. So, I suppose my question is, did you set out to write a story this long when you started writing it, or did it just happen? Also, why did you choose to include so much detail-work in this piece? 

LN: Okay, cool. I feel like I have to say thank you for every question, because I'm so grateful for the amount of attention you paid to it, and you give such lovely, specific compliments, it really means a lot. But to answer these questions, first the one about length: no, I didn't really set out for it to be any specific length. It was shorter than it is now, but it wasn't short–it was around 6,000 words, I think. And then, when I got involved in this wonderful opportunity with Chatterbox!, I was like, okay, I can let it stretch out even more, and breathe and unwind the way I wanted to. I think at a certain point in the writing career, even though I'll never have a writing career, you just get this little thing in the back of your mind where it's like, “Oh, is it publishable? Should you, like, maybe cut it back a little bit? Like, don't fuck up the story, but do you want to make sure it's publishable?” And I do, I have the little irritating cricket. And then with this opportunity, I got to really let things unfold. And I think, kind of going back to what I said, as far as, I had the idea of girl meets a turtle, gets asked on a date, talks to a couple of friends (who are both kind of odd people), and then goes back to see the turtle again. That's enough longish scenes that the story would have to be long to include all of that, because she goes to a couple locations. She's at her house, she's at the restaurant, she's at East’s place in Cleveland, she's on the beach. And I think if, at least with the way I write, if you don't give each of those locations enough time to breathe, then it starts feeling very abrupt and a little bit irritating. Like when someone's trying to tell you a story, but it's like they are about to catch their bus, so they're like, here's the bullet point version. And I felt with the vibe I was going for, and especially with the sense of time passing, and the shortness and longness of time, this was just the right way to do it.

And then the second part, like you're saying with all the details decisions, I didn't have so much a purpose in writing that as far as the reader's side. I think I just wrote that because it's what I like to write, and if I'm going along, typing, typing, locked in, you know? It's like, if I think of something where I'm like, oh, I would love to read that if I was reading a book, or I would just love the feeling of writing this sentence down almost for the somatic joy and the experiential joy of writing the piece–I just feel very comfortable including all of that. And I hope it adds something to the work, and usually when I read back, I'm like, most of this, most of this does, and I think it creates a feeling to my writing that I would like to be able to offer people. I don't know, maybe something I would like to suggest to other authors, because I imagine, maybe people reading this are other people who are interested in writing. I don't know who reads a lot of online lit mags. 

KC: I think that's almost entirely the readership, especially of a smaller magazine.

LN: Exactly. I feel like there's some truth to the Kill Your Darlings thing, but you don't gotta do that while you're writing it for the first time. If you have a little idea, just put it in because it's fun to write, it's fun to kind of put down what's going through your head. And I think people should allow themselves to do that, just mess around with it.

KC: No, for sure. That totally makes sense, and I think, that does speak to part of the goal of creating the magazine. The idea of letting things breathe, and rejecting what “publishable” means. But there's so much good detail work in your story. I love when she arrives at the restaurant with her friend, and you describe how everyone's got their pronoun pins on, and also it's so expensive. Little details that you don’t necessarily need add a lot. And, you know, the fact that she's freaked out by the elevator in her building, but, East’s elevator is okay for these very specific reasons that don't matter in a very traditional sense of a narrative, but it's joyful, it adds something.

KC: There's also a huge focus on art in this piece, and a section in which the narrator talks a lot about art history. What brought that out in this story? 

LN: Comes from different places. Mostly, it's things taken directly from real life that I found interesting, and I was like, ugh, I would love to write that down. But the Christian art that she talks about, and the donor portraits, and putting the gold into the paint and everything–I took one class my freshman year of undergraduate, called Christian Global Art, and I think I got, in the end, like, a B- in the class, because I was so bad at remembering the years and the eras and the names of the painters. But, the donor portraits thing just always stuck with me, because I think it's such an interesting thing to be someone who's very invested in imagery and biblical history to want to put a lot of money into having it on canvas. But also in this kind of sideways thing, it's like, you want yourself in there? Maybe so you can get into heaven? Maybe so people can look at the picture and be like, great guy, you know? And I felt like that kind of encompassed a lot of where the narrator was coming from, as far as what she wanted to be; she wanted to be in the story. I think she was happy to be in the story.

KC: Yeah, she wanted to be interesting, and to be thought of as interesting.

LN: Exactly. And then Elle's pottery thing, the Raku, I saw, also in DC, in the National Museum of Asian Art. I thought it was cool. And then, I also have a very specific vision in my mind for what East's and his ex's paintings look like–sort of like a little knock-off Pollock with a lot of colors in it, but it's quite small, and it's probably closer to something you'd see in a hotel than something you'd see in a gallery. You know how it is when you're making art as a young person, or a young person trying to transition into being real, a real artist, a serious artist. And then all three of these types of art had time somehow involved in them, and I felt just every way I could bring time more into it, I should, because I just really wanted the piece to be packed with time. And the more you looked into it, the more you would see, this is time, this is time, this is time, because I felt like that would get into how the narrator's almost paranoid way of seeing her world at the time, and how the turtle was really bringing that out in her, even if she was having a wonderful experience with the turtle.  

KC: That's cool! I was so interested in the fact that everyone in the friend group is into art, but with a ton of variation in their success in making it into a career. 

KC: Okay, for my last question, I wanted to make it a fun one, but you don't have to answer this if you don't want to. Here it is: if you were to develop “a very personal, clinically psychotic” relationship with a piece of art, which piece would it be, and why?

LN: Oh, this is perfect, because I already have an answer that's, like, true, actually. So there's the artist Agnes Martin. She was a schizophrenic, lesbian modern artist who, after kind of a long career of being semi-successful, she just got her art money and moved out to the desert with her female partner and kind of spent the rest of her life chilling in the desert. She had got super pressed while she was in the city, because you know how mental illness gets when you're living in the city, but then she went out to the desert, and she just chilled out for a while. And I like many of her paintings, but I like her painting, Untitled #12. It's a little bit hard to find it online, and also online pictures don't have a good sense of it, but it lives in The Art Institute of Chicago. I saw it in person, it was amazing. But it's this kind of, essentially, it's a white painted canvas with a very light pencil grid drawn over it. And the fun basic fact about the paintings is she drew these mathematically perfect grids from hand without a ruler or anything, which, when you see them, it just feels absurdly fantastic. But then the painting itself is this really soft, melded variation between various coolnesses and warmnesses, or softnesses of white. And I just, obviously I couldn't see the painting without the grid on it, but my understanding is if you were to take the grid off, you wouldn't be able to see the gradations of white at all. You would just look like you're looking at a blank canvas or a white canvas, or something kind of fuzzy. But with the grid on it, you can focus your attention on the one layer enough to see the movement in the back layer. Which I think is just super, super cool, and I think it's kind of sexy. I think it's kind of a sexy painting, because it's lesbian, and in the background, it's super soft and weird, and then on the surface, there’s the rigidity of the super precise grid drawn by a really amazing woman. Who wouldn't want to have a clinically psychotic relationship with that painting, you know? I feel like most people who see it in the The Art Institute of Chicago, the thought must… drift through their minds.

KC: They must be aroused.

LN: They must be aroused! They must be aroused, yeah.

KC: That totally makes sense. I'm so glad you had an answer! I was worried you might think it was an extremely weird question. 

LN: I assumed you were gonna ask about what ancient creature I would have a crush on. Have an answer to that, too. Aquatic plesiosaur. They have really thin necks, and the flippers, they're aquatic. They're not actually dinosaurs, they're aquatic reptiles, dope as hell, very kind faces. I feel like we could totally, totally vibe.