I’m still firmly in the denial stage of grief when it comes to Carrie Fisher. After Star Wars being present but mostly insignificant for most of my life, it grew from casual interest to deep love when The Force Awakens came out. And then Carrie Fisher was everywhere. She was amazing. Every interview, every appearance, every story about her was a gift. What a woman.
When she fell ill in December, the outpouring of love across the internet was beautiful. Everyone had something wonderful to say about her, something they remembered. Her kindness shone through all over the place, and a widespread appreciation for her work. A lot of people talked about Postcards From The Edge, saying how amazing it is. I hadn’t read it, so I bumped it up my mental to-be-read pile. When she died, I ordered it right away. I started it on New Year’s Day, curled up on the sofa with toast and my leopard print onesie, and I finished it on a bus home from work in the first week of term, and I cried, quietly, tucked against the window. One of the many wonderful things about Carrie Fisher was her honestly about addiction and mental illness. She didn’t glamourise it, didn’t pretend it was better than it was, but was blindingly funny with it, and this comes through so much in the book. I loved it, and I’m definitely going to be recommending it far and wide.
My friend saw this sign at the London Women’s March on Saturday 21st January 2017, and I saw so many other banners with Carrie’s face on. I think she’d be proud.