Thank you, Carrie
The first thing I saw when I checked news today was Carrie Fisher’s death, and I wound up ugly crying for an hour. I know this sounds crazy, but I feel like I’ve lost an older sister. When I was growing up, the beauty standard was blonde and blue-eyed, Farrah Fawcett clones. For us mostly eastern European brunettes, yeah, sucks to be you.
And then came this short, brunette, brown-eyed smartass with buns on the sides of her head and a blaster who blew those California Girl tropes out of the water and made all the girls I knew want to be space princesses. My sister went as Princess Leia for Halloween one year. I didn’t think I was cool (or thin) enough to pull it off, otherwise I would have totally done it. She looked like my sister and me, she sounded like my dad and sister, and she was fucking awesome.
And then I got older and into the writing biz, and found out that Carrie Fisher was far more than a princess. She was a hella killer talented writer and script doctor. She became a face and voice for mental illness, showing every day that you could deal with unbalanced neurochemistry and still live life on your terms and be a witty, unapologetic genius while doing it. She had a wonderful service dog named Gary that went everywhere with her, and was loved by her family. She started out as a princess and became a general. She was a hilarious, broken, utterly human badass, and our world is poorer for her passing but richer because she had been here, dammit, and had the kindness and generosity to give us her words.
Thank you, Carrie.