The Princess Diarist

by Carrie Fisher

  My hopes aren’t high, and neither, as it happens, am I.

  luminous beings were we

  In the beginning, when Star Wars became a bona fide phenomenon, none of us knew how to be famous (maybe Harrison or Mark did, but if so, they weren’t sharing their insights with me). They didn’t offer that class at Berlitz, and we lacked a manual containing suggestions on how to edge into this transitional state smoothly. Yes, I know I should’ve been able to access what was expected of me by watching my mother and elusive part-time father, which I would’ve done had I anticipated a life like theirs—which was in fact lifelike—but remember, I knew I would never go into such a fickle business.

  It all happened so quickly. Instantly there was a lot of fan mail, and we initially read all of it ourselves.

  As I’ve said, I had known celebrity before in connection with the tabloid frenzy surrounding my parents, so I wasn’t exactly swimming in unfamiliar waters. But having watched their fame diminish over the course of their lifetimes had taught me the limit of fame. You could clutch the tail of this wild tiger but you had to know—or at least I knew—that at some point it would wrest itself from your desperate grasp and hightail it off to someone else’s jungle.

  Besides, this Star Wars fame meant that Princess Leia was famous and not Carrie Fisher. I just happened to look like her—minus her bad hair, and plus less conspicuous bad hair all my own. I think fame might be more fun when it’s personal and not just someone remarking how trippy it is that you look so much like that Star Wars character. It’s still fun, though, don’t get me wrong. Or do. I can’t stop you.

  I’d had what I always referred to as associative fame. By-product fame. Fame as the salad to some other, slightly more filling main dish. Celebrity-daughter fame (and later, when married to Paul Simon, celebrity-wife fame). And now, with Star Wars, I had that happened-to-have-played-an-iconic-character fame. Still, being newly famous in whatever way you were famous was a very busy business. The main task at hand was showing people that I was just as independent and likable as was the intergalactic princess I portrayed.

  I think boys may have been attracted to my accessibility. Even if I did have some princessy qualities, I wasn’t conventionally beautiful and sexy, and as such was less likely to put them down or think I was too good for them. I wouldn’t humiliate them in any way. Even if I teased them in the context of running around with laser guns dodging bullets, I wouldn’t do it in a way that would hurt them.

  What is happening? How did we get here? Where is here? How long will it last? What is it? Do I deserve it? What does this make me? What do you wear to an event like that? What do you think I should say? What if I don’t know the answer? Being around my mom when she was being recognized was hardly an effective preparation for any of this.

  Fame can be incredibly intense, and of course none of us had any idea that anything like it would ever happen. You’d have to be a psychic of a very unique Hollywood sort to guess something of this order was up ahead ready to ambush you, transforming the character you played into a household name. The studio would set up a tour, a press junket, which was what you did especially for a movie like this where the cast were virtual unknowns. Then the movie came out and everybody went wild. Suddenly this little movie needed no promotion. But because no one could ever have anticipated that, we ended up doing the junket anyway, which became the definition of overkill. But whatever it was, it turned out that wherever we went, people were waiting and they all seemed very happy to have us there, selling the sold.

  We’d done this little low-budget film. They’d even flown us economy to our location in London to save money, and we lived off a per diem that came nowhere near the vicinity of luxurious. We’d done a cool little off-the-radar movie directed by a bearded guy from Modesto. A thing like that wasn’t going to make people want to play with a doll of you, was it?

  It was one movie. It wasn’t supposed to do what it did—nothing was supposed to do that. Nothing ever had. Movies were meant to stay on the screen, flat and large and colorful, gathering you up into their sweep of story, carrying you rollicking along to the end, then releasing you back into your unchanged life. But this movie misbehaved. It leaked out of the theater, poured off the screen, affected a lot of people so deeply that they required endless talismans and artifacts to stay connected to it.

  Had I known it was going to make that loud of a noise, I would’ve dressed better for those talk shows and definitely would have argued against that insane hair (although the hair was, in its own modest way, a big part of that noise). And I certainly wouldn’t have ever just blithely signed away any and all merchandising rights relating to my image and otherwise.

  And on top of whatever else, Mark, Harrison, and I were the only people who were having this experience. So who do you talk to that might understand? Not that that is some sort of tragedy—it just puts you in an underpopulated, empathy-free zone. I mean, obviously I’d never starred in a movie, but this was completely not like starring in your average everyday movie. It might’ve been like being one of the Beatles. Sure, most of it was a fun surprise, but the days where you could really let your guard down were over because now there were cameras everywhere. I had to comport myself with something approaching dignity, at twenty.

  But when we first began getting fan mail forty years ago, it was complicated to know what to do. Do you answer every letter or ignore some of the less enthusiastic? So for the first few months we all—that’s all, Harrison, Mark, and I—answered every letter. How I know this is because we all received a letter from the mother of a little girl who was going blind and who had seen Star Wars with her last sight and would we send her daughter an autographed picture of ourselves before she went blind altogether. So the three of us promptly hurried off and sent her the letter before she lost her sight and somehow we all ended up discovering that little Lisa was a 20-20-sighted woman of sixty-three, causing us one of many laughs in our giddy days of early fame.

  • • •

  none of us had done talk shows before, so we were forced to develop not only our public personas but our talk show styles as we went from one to the next, touting the film that needed no tout. A tout-free experience, we should’ve informed the hosts before lining up like tin ducks at a carnival waiting to be shot. And shot we were—by televised film cameras all over the U.S. and eventually onward overseas.

  I noticed right away that Harrison tended to quote philosophers when describing what he thought of the film. “As Winston Churchill said, ‘Success is not final, failure is not fatal: it is the courage to continue that counts,’” he might’ve said when asked if he thought success would change us. He also might’ve said, “Give me a minute—I’ve only been successful for a few weeks.” He might’ve said these things, but I’m pretty sure he didn’t. But whatever he said shamed me. Why wasn’t I quoting philosophers? Because I dropped out of high school midway through the eleventh grade. Well, when you really came right down to it (not similar to down to earth—or earthlings), being a dropout was a good reason to tune in and turn on—but it was no excuse for not quoting philosophers on daytime talk shows. (Mike Douglas loves philosophers!) People on The Dating Game misquoted the greatest minds of all time. “The unintentional life is not worth believing,” Harrison might’ve said, and still gotten chosen as bachelor number three!

  After a few shows of listening to Harrison waxing philosophical, I decided to take action. Harrison had majored in philosophy in college—what could I do to remain undaunted? Then it came to me: I would consult with a college professor in philosophy! And not just any college—I called Sarah Lawrence in suburban New York and asked if there was a professor whom I could consult with. They seemed hesitant until I mentioned Star Wars and implied I might soon share the screen with an intergalactic great mind known as Yoda, who would of course intone, “Do. Or do not. There is no try.” As far as doing went, that seemed to do the trick.

  Not that
the higher-ups at Sarah Lawrence are any less susceptible to Star Wars any more than the average—or above-average—human. Which is to say that they were more flexible regarding the possibility of securing a professor for insecure me. Having had a few tutorials in philosophy, I believe I found one or two talk shows where I could employ my new college-level insights, but quickly determined that to have two actors spouting philosophical gems to the moviegoing public was a bit much—a bit of smuggler monkey see, princess monkey do.

  So after a very short while, I gave up on looking intelligent, thank God, and I continue that to this day. I would make it look like a devious plan when I seemed less than effervescent and approaching pedestrian (without a crosswalk). You couldn’t accuse me of doing a less-than-stellar job on the Johnny Carson show without my insisting that you had forgotten my telling you that that had been my intention all along.

  We did so many chat shows that we finally wound up being overexposed. There are worse tragedies, but you couldn’t have gotten me to guess what they were at the time. But we plodded along, newly minted celebrities gracing television shows all over America. We didn’t realize initially how big a hit the movie was because we were traveling to every capital in every state promoting it—which you do when a film is an unknown quantity. It was being on the run and feeling as though I was trying to either keep up with something or keep away from some danger at my heels. But then bodies in motion tend to stay in motion—so that’s where we stayed: in motion and on the road.

  To relax in our giddy unrelaxed configurations, we would sometimes go to amusement parks. I remember one particular day in Seattle where Harrison—well, all of us really—had gotten on a Ferris wheel that had cages for seats that tended to spin as it went around. As you can see, it’s difficult to describe—but the bottom upside-down line is that Mark and I had gotten on the ride first, so when we got off we watched as Harrison—who like all of us was still wearing what we’d worn on TV (not your optimum style for Disneyland Lite)—got on. And Mark and I stood on the ground laughing while a poker-faced Harrison hung upside down like a dressed-up fruit bat with a tie casually draped over his very serious face!

  In some ways this whirling around made us look and feel like what our lives looked and felt like. I don’t know, you had to be there. “There” being everywhere all at once—the traveling snake oil salesmen of space travel.

  “Hurry, hurry, hurry. Step right up, everybody, and see this new, once-in-a-lifetime product I call the Star Wars—a tale of intergalactic excitement, with battle sequences and heroes and smugglers and princesses all careening through space having the time of their lives. And now you can have the time of your life—for the low, low price of five bucks, you too will have the time of your moviegoing, going, gone life! Hurry, hurry, hurry, act now because this deal will only be offered . . .” And on and on we went from state to state, capital to capital, audience to audience, hawking our wares and frequently not knowing where we were.

  • • •

  for me, the worst part of this better-than-best time period was when I was being photographed. I hate having my picture taken—maybe because it was already happening at the age of six hours, well before I was old enough to articulate my objections with words. I was forced to protest with infant expressions and baby poison eye darts. I hated it all through my childhood—when it shouldn’t have been that big of a trial because I was young and cute (even really cute, depending on who you talk to)—and I loathe it now. Especially in this smartphone era, when anyone at any moment can take a candid shot somewhere when you’re far from “camera ready” (i.e., most of the time), and you know it’s not just a bad picture but a scornful reminder of just how old you’re getting and how fat you’ve gotten—not only a reminder of what you once were but also of what you no longer are and never will be again. And, as if that wasn’t enough, some stranger owns this horrific image and is free to do whatever with it in private or with his friends.

  The movie had been out for a few weeks and the lines were twisting around the blocks. (The term “blockbuster,” in fact, was born because ticket lines would come to the edge of the street, pause for that asphalt interruption, and then begin again enthusiastically on the next block.) I would drive by with my friends in disbelief, wondering how anything that popular could include me.

  One day we were driving down Wilshire Boulevard in Westwood, where the Avco Cinema had what looked to me like the longest line I had seen so far. As you can imagine, I was really excited—“chuffed” is the British word for it. I love how they made themselves this little word that means “giddy with an excitement that you’re trying to suppress because you’d rather be thought of as looking kind of cool.” So I stood up on the car seat, and not just stuck out my head but squeezed half my body through the sunroof, then shouted, “Hey, I’m in that! I’m the princess!”

  This certainly caused some interest, ranging from the scornful “What an asshole” variety to the breathless “Do you think it’s really her?”

  “I’m in that!” I repeated for those who hadn’t heard me the first time. Then, suddenly realizing what I had done and quickly fearing that some of these moviegoers might identify me, I slid back down into my seat and said to my friend, “Quick! Drive!” So she stepped on the gas and sped away.

  • • •

  the one question people can never seem to stop asking me is “Did you know Star Wars was going to be that big of a hit?” Well, given that there had never actually been a film that had been that big of a hit before, who could possibly ever have assumed that there now would be?

  Now I’ve begun answering that question differently than replying, “No I didn’t.” I’ve begun saying, “Well, actually, I thought it was going to be an even bigger phenomenon. So when it wasn’t—when Star Wars and its sequels failed to meet my remarkable, almost unbelievable expectations—well, I want you to just try to imagine how crushed, how disappointed I felt, and still feel.”

  Imagine how it felt when my anticipated dreams and fantasies failed to come true. What would you have done if you were me? Turn to drugs, maybe? Lose your mind? Possibly maybe even both?

  leia’s lap dance

  “Could you make it to Jerry? He couldn’t come today. He’s having chemo. But he’s been your biggest fan since he was knee-high. We showed him the movies when he was three. JERRY. With a J, yes, that’s right. And could you write, ‘May the Force be with you’? You have no idea what this would mean to him. When I told him you were going to be here he cried . . . Thank you so much. He absolutely worships Star Wars.

  “I just can’t believe it’s you. If someone told me back when I first saw the first episode, if someone had said, ‘One day you’re gonna meet Princess Leia face-to-face,’ I just wouldn’ta . . . I woulda thought you was making fun of me, ya know? Back then . . . agghh, I am so sorry, a grown woman standing here cryin’ like a baby, you must think I’m plumb loco . . . No, that’s okay, I’ve gotten to where it doesn’t bother me as much what people think of me. I mean, it still hurts but not so much so’s I’m useless.

  “And part of that’s ’cause of you. Princess Leia was such a huge inspiration to me. I thought, if I could grow up and be even just a little like you! ’Cause a little of you looked like a big ole lot to me. And then when I grew up, or got older, whichever, and I was on the express checkout line reading the magazine while I was waitin’ for the people with twenty items when you’re not supposed to have more than a dozen, so while I’m waitin’ I’m flippin’ through this magazine and I come across this picture of you. I might not’ve known it was you, except there was a picture of you in the slave outfit on the opposite page.

  “So I start reading, and I swear I came to think that my finding that magazine with you in it was no accident. I don’t know if you put much . . . you know, I doubt you believe in God or whatnot, ’cause I’ve always heard that celebrities are . . . You do? . . . Oh, well, whatever you wanna call Him or It or
. . .

  “Look at me, here I am just rattlin’ off at the mouth when you have so many other people waiting, I’ll just shut my trap and let you get to them, but before I do, could I ask you one last little favor? A picture? I mean, how many times does somebody find themselves standing with . . . I’m sorry, I get to talking, I’m just so thrilled and so nervous to meet you. Wait’ll I tell Ira down at the blood bank, he said I’d probably never . . .

  “My camera? It’s in my purse. I think, I HOPE! Wouldn’t that be . . . as my mom used to say, wouldn’t that beat all? I wish she were still alive. She passed right when the first Star Wars came out. I remember at her wake my cousins were talking about this crazy-sounding movie that had just opened that Wednesday. Amazing, isn’t it?

  “At first it was just super hard for me, and if it hadn’t been for Star Wars, I swear I don’t know if I would’ve made it. It was like, God took my mom home to Him and He led me to Star Wars. He gave me you and Luke and Han, and somehow that was enough. I don’t mean ‘enough’ like having Star Wars was like having my mom back to life and stitchin’ one of her crazy embroideries or . . . or . . . That makes her sound like some kinda Betty Crocker–type mom and that’s something she just absolutely sure as shit, ’scuse my French, wasn’t. She was a lotta things, my mom—my brother could tell you. He’d a been here but he couldn’t get off work. Me and him, we used to follow my mom without her knowin’ to make sure she was, well, that she’d keep outta trouble ’n’ such . . . I’m sorry, what? . . . Oh, Ben. That’s my brother’s name, Ben. Like Ben Kenobi, only not, ’cause like I said she died before she coulda seen it. That’s one regret I have. I don’t like focusing on regretting things much, but I truly believe that if my mom coulda seen you guys’s movies she . . . Well, no use cryin’ over spilt people.