If you were a kid in the late seventies, there’s a good chance that you played with an action figure of Carrie Fisher. “Star Wars” was a revelation when it came out, in 1977-it redefined our pop-cultural world, thrillingly, making us feel the way the swashbuckling John Williams title theme sounded. Girls of my generation, and the ones that followed, admired Princess Leia, and identified with her-not just because we loved her but because, like Wonder Woman among the Superfriends, she was the only girl in the gang. (Playing with the action figures, my best friend, a boy, was some combination of Luke, Han Solo, Darth, Chewy, R2-D2, and the Stormtroopers; I was Princess Leia.) Onscreen, Princess Leia was wonderful-a smart, spiky, funny heroine, vulnerable and tough at once, unfazed by her absurd braid buns, not putting up with any mishegas from Luke Skywalker or Han Solo. (“Aren’t you a little short for a Stormtrooper?” she asks Luke, when he comes to rescue her.) As a mythical space heroine, Carrie Fisher read as a real person. As a kid enchanted by all of it, you, even a non-sci-fi-loving girl, could connect to this fanciful outer-space world.