She Wasn’t Mine

Star Wars wasn’t my fandom.

Oh, I saw most of the movies.  I watched Episodes IV – VI with my father and brother when they were re-released in theaters when I was in high school.  I had watched A New Hope at some point in my childhood and…

…it didn’t go well.  It scared the ever-loving snot out of me, to the point where I avoided most space-centric fiction unless somebody else happened to be involved.  My father and childhood best friend both liked Star Trek, so I got a fair amount of exposure to that particular corner of nerd.  Other than that?  Space was not my friend.

Not until Firefly.  However, I would argue that Firefly was more of a western anyway.  But that’s neither here nor there for the purpose of what I’m doing today.

So no, Star Wars wasn’t mine, and as such, Carrie Fisher wasn’t mine.  I re-watched Episode IV last week with my husband and a friend and while I enjoyed the experience a great deal, I believe that Rogue One will be the Star Wars movie of my heart.  If there is a scrappy female to thank for me getting into the franchise this late in the game, well, that honor goes to Jyn Erso.  Anyway, after my viewing of EpIV last week, I was in awe of Leia and her completely unimpressed attitude at her supposed rescuers.  She’s resourceful and tough, and I wish that I had grown up with her the way that some of my best friends did.  I went home that night and purchased Fisher’s memoirs (all three volumes).

Then I learned about her marvelous writing career beyond her personal accounts (which are marvelous).  Her work as a script doctor.  Her unabashed transparency about her own mental demons and struggles.  Wow, I thought.  Carrie Fisher is pretty damned awesome.

Tragically, 2016 attacked and swept Fisher away just as I was starting to truly understand how fantastic she is.  I am saddened at her death, and I wish that I could claim her as a role model the way that so many of my peers in fandom do.

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