The Princess Diarist

by Carrie Fisher

  “The biggest thing for me was that it was because of you I tried to become a lawyer. No, in the end I didn’t, but at the time I thought, ‘Hey, if Princess Leia can do everything she does, why can’t I go to law school?’ I had to do something that was the equivalent of when you yelled at Luke and Han, ‘Put that thing away or you’re gonna get us all killed!!!’

  “Ooooh, sorry. I didn’t think it was gonna be that loud—I was just trying to do it like you. Yeah, I did, didn’t I? I mean, was. I was as loud as you. Did it feel good when you did it? Okay, then! There’s another thing! We both dieted, neither one of us is color-blind, and we feel good yelling. See, enough things eventually add up and—right, no girls are color-blind, but that doesn’t matter ’cause so are we.

  “Just like both of us having dogs named Gary! I didn’t? I thought I told you that right away! Oh, well, then this is me telling you now. I have a dog named Gary, too! When? I don’t know exactly but around the same time as you got your Gary. Maybe a little after, but I hadn’t known about your Gary when I got mine. Or at least not consciously. You didn’t Twitter it, did you? I thought not. All’s I know is I had this crazy impulse one day to get a dog, right? I’d been super sick with really bad bronchitis—I had this really high fever, which made me get those super-vivid dreams, and in one dream I was with you and we both had this French bulldog named Gary. The weird thing was I didn’t think I’d ever heard of that type of dog. Anyway, I dreamt we had this black bulldog and the next thing I know, my dad gets me this dog. Trippy, right? A lot of people thought I’d copied you, like always. But how could I have copied you when it was my dad that bought him for me based on a dream I can barely even still remember having?

  “So that’s just one more thing. You have to admit, there’s something kind of spooky, no? We look alike, we have the same dog, almost the same hair color and weight issues. It adds up after a while, you have to admit. Some people might say it’s coincidence, but even if it is it’s a trippy coincidence.

  “Hey! Maybe we can mate our Garys!!! No, my Gary is a girl, so it could work. Wouldn’t that be awesome? I mean, that would be the perfect outcome to this whole snarl of amazingness! He is? Well, those things can be reversed, can’t they? No? A dog can’t be unfixed? But if you really believe he can, then he can! We could use the Force to unfix him, then have puppies we sell on Twitter! Or not sell. But announce the miracle. The Second Coming of . . . the Mating of Gary. Gary He and Gary She. Gary WE! We as in oui, which in French (as in French bulldog) means yes! So, yes! Bring on the bulldog babies!”

  • • •

  i saw where someone was complaining about how much celebrities charge for autographs at these events, and in our defense someone said, “Well, you know, it may cost that much now, but when she dies it’s really going to be worth a lot.” So my death is worth something to some people. If I had enough pictures signed someone could put out a hit on me.

  Of course I also still sign autographs for free. At screenings, for example, where the professional autograph hounds follow you around, braying and nipping at your heels, waving photos under your face until someone whose signature is more valuable (or more current) shows up, at which point they abandon you until that brighter star escapes into a car or through a door, and then they come scampering back to you.

  “Miss Fisher, please, I’ve flown all the way from Newfoundland!”

  “Miss Fisher, please! I’ve been in love with you since I was a little boy!” (This man is in his sixties.)

  “Miss Fisher, I was almost in 9/11.” Well, then, you think, of course. This person could’ve been killed. Where do I sign? But then . . . wait. You think a second. What does that really mean? She was in the World Trade Center but somehow managed to escape? She was on the downtown subway stuck in midtown when the first plane hit? She’d interviewed for a job with Cantor Fitzgerald but didn’t get it? She had a job there but slept through the sound of her alarm and so wasn’t there at her desk when . . . And on and on and on.

  But can you ask her any of this? More to the point, do you want to? Do you want to be the person questioning the validity of someone’s tale of their brush with tragedy, just because you’d rather not sign their poster? But if it is a lie—if this woman has concocted this story to ensure that you’ll not only sign her poster but that you’ll sign four—hell, why not five? And for that matter, how about a grand total of eleven?

  So if it’s not true, and she’s invented a story about narrowly escaping being somewhere horrific when she was really just home like the rest of us saps glued to the TV, then she just won the award for the fan most willing to lie about her involvement in one of the more sacred tragedies ever to scar this earth, and to risk hell for the sake of some sci-fi signature.

  No. It couldn’t be. Best not to think of it.

  sensation adjacent

  I went to Madame Tussauds to see the wax statue they’d made of me. Well, not me, actually. That would have been someone lying in bed watching old movies on TV, drinking a Coke with one hand while adjusting her dog Gary’s tongue with the other. The statue they made was of Princess Leia me.

  Not that I’m a big fan of my face, but still—it is mine, whichever way you tilt it. I didn’t like my face when I should have and now that it’s melted, I look back on that face fondly. People send me pictures of my young pre-melted face all the time. Angry pre-melted—a lot of angry pre-melted, actually. Agitated. Frustrated. My face tense with . . . well, mostly frustration.

  But some of my expressions are happy. Super, beyond happy. Stoned in some, most likely, but smiling, grinning my chin off. Gazing at some guy adoringly, both on-screen and off, sometimes simultaneously.

  What expression did Madame Tussauds choose to embalm on my face? Impassive Leia/me. Staring stoically into the future with Jabba the Hutt giggling peacefully behind me. Why shouldn’t he giggle? What’s he got to worry about? Surely not his weight. He’s big boned or no boned. He could do with some toning, but why bother? With impassive, sweaty-looking me as his slave and that annoying little rat in drag to amuse him, he’s got a great life. One that Leia and I hope/plan to put an end to very shortly. But hey, we can plan all we want because now we’re forever trapped in invisible amber, holding quite still so you can be photographed with all of us if you happen to be in the mood.

  The main thing you notice, though, about wax Leia is that I’m almost naked.

  When you get close to my doppelgänger, she might look a little thick skinned or sweaty, so stay back if it bothers you! She might not have a “beauty mark” on her lower back, but I wouldn’t either if I could help it. Maybe the wax me could take over when the flesh me can’t do it anymore. But the wax me would have to do whatever necessary thing it was in that fucking bikini.

  Everyone else got to wear their regular outfits from the first movie. I had to wear my outfit that Jabba picked out for me. Jabba the Hutt—the fashionista. Jabba the Hutt—the Coco Chanel of intergalactic style. Trendsetter, fashion maven, leader of women’s looks in his world, on his planet and the next. In wax, I would forever be outfitted by outlaw Jabba. In wax and out, I would forever be stone-faced.

  • • •

  i’ve rarely talked about Leia at length—not deliberately in any event. I’m asked about her all the time. How she is. What her plans are for Episodes VIII and IX. How things are going with Harrison. Is he feeling better since the crash of his starfighter—or whatever sort of plane/spaceship he was flying that day he crashed? Why wasn’t I with him? I’ll bet I was glad now that I’d stayed home. I wasn’t going to let him fly for a while now, was I? That must’ve been scary, but then he always has been reckless, hasn’t he? That’s why you make such a good couple; you’re one of the few people who don’t take too much of his guff.

  • • •

  it turns out that it/she matters to me. Leia. Unfortunately. Sometimes I feel as if I’d rather concern myself with . . . almost anything.
But as it happens I’ve spent the lion’s share of my life, starting at nineteen and continuing forty years on jauntily in the present, being as much myself as Princess Leia. Answering questions about her, defending her, fed up with being mistaken for her, overshadowed by her, struggling with my resentment of her, making her my own, finding myself, keeping company with her, loving her . . . wishing she’d finally just go away and leave me to be myself alone, but then wondering who I’d be without her, finding out how proud I am of her, making sure I’m careful to not do anything that might reflect badly on her or that she might disapprove of, feeling honored to be her representative here on earth, her caretaker, doing my best to represent her, trying to understand how she might feel, doing what I can to be worthy of the gig, and then feeling beyond ridiculous and wishing that it would just fade away, leaving me to be who I was all those years ago.

  Whoever that might’ve been before Leia eclipsed me, informed me, and made me angry and resent it when other people would try to put words in her mouth without consulting me! You mean I got to decide all things Leia only between sequels? When the camera goes on—I get handed a script to memorize?

  What would I be if I weren’t Princess Leia? A great big nothing without one piece of fan mail to call my own? Someone who didn’t have to defend her right to not look good in a bikini over forty-five? With no bad hair to look back on wistfully? No nights spent thrashing around in bed sleeplessly wishing I hadn’t used that awful Dick Van Dyke British accent while conversing intensely with a man in a mask who would turn out to be my father even though he’d used some horrible bad dentist in a sphere, giving me a root canal without Novocain as a form of torture? If he knew he was my father, why would he do such a thing? Unless it was to show me how good my actual real-life father was! If so, what an amazing (though delivered in an arguably life-threatening manner) perspective to provide me with!

  Unfortunately, this perspective was delivered too late in my life to do me any real actual good. It could’ve been done to challenge me—force me, if you will—to make it do me good! It was done because he trusted that I had sufficient strength to be able to apply this insight! God never gives us more than we can handle, so if He gives you a lot, take it as a compliment—you catch the overall gist of my drift.

  • • •

  what would I be if I weren’t Princess Leia? I would never give a celebrity lap dance or be considered a serious actress or have used the term “nerf herder” as though I understood it, though I didn’t at all, never have met Alec Guinness or been a hologram where I recited earnestly a speech I’ll remember all my life until I get dementia because I had to say it so many times, or shot a gun, or been shot, or not worn underwear because I was in space.

  Never never never (I’m sobbing as I write this) have been way overexposed. Or have had adolescent male fans think about me up to four times a day in a private place, never have had to lose huge quantities of weight, never have seen my face millions of feet high long past the time when that’s a good idea, never have gotten a quarter of a point of the back end of the movie’s gross.

  Never have had the Force or a twin or been friends with a huge moody howling . . . not a monkey but . . . maybe a hairy creature. Never have been asked if I thought I’d been objectified by silently wearing a gold bikini, while seated on a giant laughing cruel slug, while everyone chatted gaily around me? Never have been in an airport and heard someone shout, “Princess!” as though that were my actual name, enabling and requiring me to turn around and politely respond, “Yes?” Never have had my entire planet blown up in front of me (including my mother and entire record collection), while looking at a small blackboard with a circle on it, never have talked to robots or teeny bearlike creatures whom I would then feed snacks. Never have been asked, “Who do you think you would’ve turned out to be if you weren’t an intergalactic princess?”

  I’d be me.

  You know, Carrie.

  Just me.

  acknowledgments

  For Paul Slansky there are no words. There are, however, a couple of facial expressions. Worry, which you abolished, and joyful relief, which you caused. No mere words—there are thousands of them, sentences and paragraphs filled with them. We row-row-rowed these words gently till I screamed—wearily, wearily, and finally cheerfully, this manuscript we redeemed. Whenever I get introspective, I frequently run into you.

  For Billie—for turning out better than I could deserve or imagine. But please get a housekeeper. Vegas will always be there.

  For my mother—for being too stubborn and thoughtful to die. I love you, but that whole emergency, almost dying thing, wasn’t funny. Don’t even THINK about doing it again in any form.

  For Corby—for being the best assistant and travel companion I could have—working hours so long I couldn’t see the end of them, helping me to make this the best book it could be. You beyond made up for those who went before you.

  For David Rosenthal—for his assistance with the text, etc., and for the bum’s rush in getting the whole thing done and out like fast food. Yes, you’re good for the Jews.

  Mr. and Mr. Stephen Fry, Beverly D’Angelo, Caren Sage, Ben Dey, Simon Green, Helen Fielding, Buck and Irene Henry, Clancy Imislund for the structure and patience; Dave Mirkin, Bill Reynolds, Melissa North Chassay and family, Gloria Crayton, Byron Lane, Donald Light for saving my mother’s life and protecting her from demons and whores; Fred Crayton for keeping life exciting and being prompt in all things; Seamus Lyte, Fred Bimbler, Michael Gonzalez, Gayle Rich and brood, Gilbert Herrera, Bryan Lourd for his DNA, Paul Allen, Maritza Garcia, Roy Teeluck, Mr. and Mr. Rufus Wainwright, Connie Freiberg for finding all those early poems and knowing me my entire livelong life and not minding it; Mr. and Mrs. James Blunt and son, Blanca “Bubbles” McCoin for being such a good wife to what’s-her-face; Graham Norton for keeping secrets-ish, J. D. Souther, Charlie Wessler, Griffin Dunne, Gavin de Becker, Bruce Cohen, Kathleen Kennedy, Dennis King, Sean Lennon, Cynthia, Martyn Giles, Cindy Sayre, Ruby Wax and family, Ben Stevens, Azar, Michael Rosenbaum, Art, Dr. Mike Gould, Edgar Phillips Senior and Junior, Annabelle Karouby, François Ravard, Kenny Baker, Katie Zaborsky, Timothy Hoffman, Penny Marshall, Michael Tolkin, Wendy Mogel, Nicole Perez-Krueger, Carol Marshall, Peter Mayhew, May Quigley, Ed Begley Jr., Salman, Meddy, David Bathe, Johnny McKeown, Tony Daniels, NOT Bruce Wagner, Sheila Nevins, Fisher Stevens, Alexis Bloom, Nina Jacobsen, Joely and Tricia Fisha, Todd and Cat Fisher, J. J. Abrams for putting up with me twice, and Gary.

  And

  Melissa Mathison.

  You are loved and missed.

  photo credits

  Leia, 1976.

  Photo courtesy Lucasfilm Ltd. LLC.

  STAR WARS: Episode IV—A New Hope ™ & © Lucasfilm Ltd. LLC.

  Between takes: Harrison Ford, Mark Hamill, and Carrie Fisher on the set of the first Star Wars film.

  Photo courtesy Lucasfilm Ltd. LLC.

  STAR WARS: Episode IV—A New Hope ™ & © Lucasfilm Ltd. LLC.

  Carrie Fisher on Warren Beatty’s shoulder during the filming of Shampoo.

  Photo courtesy Getty Images/Bettmann

  Carrie Fisher caught by a paparazzo outside Chasen’s Restaurant in Beverly Hills.

  Photo courtesy Getty Images/Ron Galella

  Harrison Ford chats with Carrie Fisher during a break in the filming of the CBS-TV special The Star Wars Holiday.

  Photo courtesy AP Photo/George Brich

  A promotion portrait for Star Wars IV.

  Photo courtesy the author

  Pages from Carrie’s handwritten journals.

  Photo courtesy Paul Mocey-Hanton

  The princess, the smuggler, and a cast of thousands.

  Photo courtesy Lucasfilm Ltd. LLC.

  STAR WARS: Episode IV—A New Hope ™ & © Lucasfilm Ltd. LLC.

  Mark Hamill, Carrie Fisher, and Harrison Ford getting a bite to eat on t
heir initial publicity tour.

  Photo Courtesy Getty Images/Steve Larson

  Vintage Star Wars action figures released by Kenner Products.

  Carrie Fisher, Gary Fisher, and wax Princess Leia at Madame Tussauds in London, May 2016.

  Photo courtesy Ben Queenborough/REX/Shutterstock

  Photo courtesy Lucasfilm Ltd. LLC.

  STAR WARS: Episode IV—A New Hope ™ & © Lucasfilm Ltd. LLC.

  about the author

  Carrie Fisher is an author and actress best known for her role as Princess Leia in the Star Wars franchise. She has appeared in countless other films, including Shampoo and When Harry Met Sally and is the author of four bestselling novels: Surrender the Pink, Delusions of Grandma, The Best Awful, and Postcards from the Edge, as well as the memoirs Shockaholic and Wishful Drinking. Fisher lives in Los Angeles.

  What’s next on

  your reading list?

  Discover your next

  great read!

  * * *

  Get personalized book picks and up-to-date news about this author.

  Sign up now.