Monday, I was initiated into the grand tradition of Star Wars lines. Four hours in the cold, blowing wind waiting for toys I had no intention of buying until I was in the store. The first Luminara off the shelves. An experience so spontaneously tangible that I can't fully describe it now - but I could've then.

Tuesday, I recalled the documentary filmmaker. He interviewed Will and Samantha and Wendy because of their obvious but friendly fanaticism. I recalled Star Woids and the line staff's warning that we may be asked by the mainstream to perform a stereotype. And so I decided: to keep a journal for the three weeks that I and 349 other fans await our promised tickets; that I will bring my camera often; and that when all is over, I will produce a book like no other, a book that documents the phenomenon from the inside, from beneath the canopy, the costume, the sleeping bag, from the sidewalk, the lawn chair.

Wednesday - today - I began. $34.10 for a journal and two pens. For fame? For memories? For a good laugh ten years down the road at a twenty-year-old girl residing in New York in a state of continual disbelief that this was happening, for the second and second-to-last time.