It was 2005 when I first spotted one of the world’s most famous faces during the break at an AA meeting just off of Sunset Boulevard. It was Carrie Fisher. She was five-foot-nothing in her black cocktail dress, her hair a bright fuchsia color, and she was running, like a Haight Ashbury hippie.
I ran after her, into the courtyard of the synagogue that was hosting the meeting, and tapped her on the shoulder. “I hope you don’t think I’m a stalker,” I said. “I just want to introduce myself and tell you that I worship the ground you walk on.” As those stalkerish sentences came out of my mouth, I had second thoughts about approaching this writer/actress/icon. Why would a woman who’d played a role in a series of blockbuster movies want anything to do with me?