I cried when I heard Carrie Fisher died, a couple of days after Christmas in 2016. People all across the galaxy did: Star Wars nerds, avid readers of her novels and memoirs, mental health advocates, self-proclaimed killjoy feminists. The coroner’s report, released six months later, reported that traces of heroin and cocaine had been found in her system. Some fans left the club, outraged that it wasn’t a simple, noncontroversial heart attack caused by too much fish and chips (she was on her way home from London) that ended her life. But Carrie was never easy, never well behaved, never secretive about her demons. She was never not controversial in life, so why should her death be any different?

I’ve always