I am immensely sad that Fisher is dead - way, way before her time - but, sadly, this is not a great book. Yes, it's based on her one-woman play about her life, and it seems the kind of play right up her alley - sarcastic, honest, entertaining - but the book does not do that concept justice.
Of course, she's writing from her life and she's utterly self-deprecating, so this is not the kind of celebrity tell-all that makes you roll your eyes and back away slowly. The stories themselves alternate between thrilling and horrifying, as would be expected, but they also seem all over the place. Where are the stories we've heard about her dalliances with Ford and maybe Hamill? Or her misunderstandings with Lucas? I mean it's delightful to read about her interactions with Bob Dylan, but I wanted more dish about Star Wars, thank you very much.
I wouldn't think that at that stage of her life she cared very deeply about throwing living people under the bus. She does seem to care most about clarifying and explaining her dope-ridden life, which, since she seemed to be the poster child for bipolar disorder, is probably a public service.