Outside Freddie’s shed, Thomas, Katie and Emily stop to remember. Thomas has never been here before; he’s finally being accepted just as he’s about to leave. Katie forced her way inside a long time ago, but she knew it was not where she belonged. And Emily never even cared to try, because where she fit was more like water in the parched cracks of Naomi’s soul.
Emily doesn’t know that Naomi’s thirst was the catalyst for a dragon’s destruction, but we have one more thing to talk about before she finds out.
The greatest gift a storyteller can give you — and you’ll never convince me there is a greater gift than story — is to tell you something real. My favorite book starts like this: The world is dark, and light is precious. Come closer, dear reader. You must trust me. I am telling you a story. Which is the honest-to-God most seductive thing anyone could ever whisper into my ear.
A lot of people — don’t wince, own it — gave the Skins writing team so much crap this series because of the palpable angst between Naomi and Emily. And I get that, I really do. Because your heart took up the rhythm of their hearts, and when theirs broke, yours broke too.
So, some people are like: You’ve only got eight episodes; I want to see Naomi and Emily happy.
But I’m like: You’ve only got eight episodes; tell me something true. (“Go on, JJ; don’t be pathetic. Tell me something true.”)
Life is messy, yeah? All these unrelated events — inane, monotonous, trivial — threaded together by time. When you die, someone ties the thread together, maybe even in a bow, but there’s still no shape to it. And without shape, there is no meaning. Most lives are shapeless, and that’s OK, because you know what else is shapeless? The night sky — or it would be if someone hadn’t drawn Orion and Pegasus and Cassiopeia onto heaven’s canvas.
Constellations are just another story: form to the madness, order to the chaos.
Fiction resonates because it does the same thing — only instead of drawing pictures of kings out of unrelated points of light, it draws pictures of us out of unrelated points of life.
Authentic stories, real stories get inside us in a way nothing else can.