I wanted to like this book. I really wanted to like it. But I absolutely could not.
Fisher was not meant to be a writer. She used this book as a trash can for her emotional vomit. None of it was logical or entertaining. This was purported to be a story of her time on Star Wars, and instead it was a litany of all the awful things she did while on the set of Star Wars (I don't need to go into the details, but Ford was a married man, and apparently that counts for nothing/makes it all the more exciting/gives it all the more reason to be brag-worthy.).
The insane amount of drinking, drugs, and sex, were all things to brag about. Never once did she express remorse for any of the crap she did. She put it into this book and expected us to be proud of all she did. Sorry, but I'm not at all proud or impressed or empowered.
Content aside, I wasn't kidding about emotional vomit. This was stream of consciousness in a way that stream of consciousness was never meant to be. This beautiful writing style was just completely ruined in what Fisher did in her book. She used it solely to be seen as "cuter" or "funny" or "witty" or "cool," and all I got from it was how idiotic she sounds when no one tells her to stop talking. Someone needed to cut her off at the end of each thought and teach her how to tie those thoughts together.
I definitely feel pretty bad writing this after her death, but honesty must prevail?
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