When I first read “The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, I was genuinely convinced I was Lucy Pevensie. One time I sat on a swing set for hours, squeezing my eyes shut every time I hit the swing’s peak and willing myself away to Narnia. Once my feet left the ground, I was in limbo: whisked away to a snowy forest next to a lamppost, standing atop a frozen waterfall just before the ice began to crack.
The first time I listened to Dodie Clark, I felt the same way like I’d found my grown-up fantasy world. I wanted to crawl inside her songs, to live in the universe of yellow flowers and smeared makeup and sunshine the next morning she created. But this time, I devoured more than just the songs themselves. I devoured her life: the people she was friends with, her favorite playlists, the way she put little eyeliner dots under her eyes.