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Carrie Fisher was, clearly, someone special. Young, vibrant and wise beyond her years when she starred in the original Star Wars trilogy, she obviously found herself at odds with the demands of fame, the requirements of celebrity and the expectations placed upon her. So, to apply a cliched term, she rebelled. Uncomfortable in that skin, one which was false, she chose to inhabit another, one which was real. Her real identify was a writer, a wit, an unabashed critic. What is most powerful to me about Fisher is that she critiqued her own life in the harshest of manners – in the spotlight. Her autobiographical novel POSTCARDS FROM THE EDGE and her first memoir WISHFUL DRINKING paint a picture of a woman who learned who she was, how to be at peace with who she was and that she didn’t give a damn about what anyone else thought about who she was. She opened doors for people to talk about mental illness and to discuss addiction. She seemed, in recent years, to be amused by her life, not at odds with it. She seemed at peace.
And, to be sure, she was the first princess this guy ever cared about.