I've made a few TikToks of clips from my voyage on the Starcruiser, and every once in a while, someone leaves a comment on TikTok or on the reel version of it on Instagram, saying something along the lines of, "$6000 for this?"

I delete these comments. I don't feel like engaging with them. But there's a part of me that wants to say, "Of course not. This is a sixty-second video. Nobody paid that much for merely sixty seconds of just watching. What's the point of saying something like that? What do you get out of believing that you know everything you need to know about a two-day immersive experience from this silly little video I threw together in a futile yet necessary attempt to convey - to celebrate - even a fraction of what this experience meant to me and to everyone else who was a part of it?"

I don't have much footage of my time on the Halcyon. For the first six months of my Starcruiser journey, I was a show writer on the project. Playtests had only just begun, and photos and videos were forbidden. I couldn't tell anyone about this thing we were building together, how much love we were pouring into it, how much hope we had that the world would love it, too.

I then spent a year watching from afar while guests discovered the Halcyon. While they built relationships with the characters. While they realized just how much was always going on, just out of sight. While they ate the food and dressed to fit the world and came up with their own backstories. While they became the heroes of their own Star Wars story. And they loved it. They loved it. I marveled at the knowledge that there was fanfiction, there was fanart, there were return visitors making the journey again and again, the journey I truly never thought I would make once - especially not once it was announced that the ship would close.

My friend Shelby reached out to me, with literally two weeks warning, that they'd found a room. I dipped into my savings account. And, no, I didn't spend $6000. There were five people in our cabin; I spent less than $1300, even with the merchandise I couldn't help but grab. $1300 for a once in a lifetime opportunity to experience this show as a guest, to truly see what had come of it.

I was determined not to metagame. I would not ask the performers for anything, even though I knew most of them. I would not use my pre-knowledge to seek out fun moments - though of course I made sure that my party was looking in the right direction to see Chewbacca enter the dining room, 'cause that's just me being a good friend. I was ready to have fun. I expected to have fun.

I did not expect to be completely blown away.

I've said this before, and I'm sure I'll say it again. One of the most important things to me as a writer is that I create shows that not only are loved by the audience but also by the people involved in bringing the show to life. When I hear an actor laugh while reading a script I wrote, that fills me with joy. When a stage manager thanks me for making sure they have all the information they need on time, I feel like I've done something right. Back in 2018, when I got to bring my parents to see some of the work I'd done for the Incredible Tomorrowland Expo, one of the improv performers ran up to my dad, grabbed him by the arm, and said, "Did you know she's a writer?? You should be so proud!" - and I almost cried.

When I set foot on the Halcyon as a guest, I did not know that I was actually about to experience two days straight of love. Throughout that two day show, every very little thing that every operations crewmember and performer did screamed, "I love this! I love this! I'm giving it my all!" After a year and a half of nigh-on constant performances, through the exhaustion and the stress and the internet hate and the uncertainty about the future, they were still pouring everything they had, every ounce of love, into that show. And I felt that love washing over me in every moment.

It meant the most coming from the performers. Again, I didn't ask them for anything. I told them I would be there and that my crew and I were ready to play. I went in-character, as Shira the mechanic, prepared to pretend I didn't know them.

But they kept dropping hints that they knew me.

The first time I saw Lenka, my crew was already talking to her. My friend Andrew pointed me out, and said, "She's a mechanic." Without missing a beat, Lenka replied, "Yes, I remember, she helped fix the ship after the pirate attack a few months back. It's wonderful to see you again."

Good fortune put us in the right place and the right time to greet Gaya as she came onboard the ship (yay bridge training!). She smiled at me and my friend Shelby and said, "These two look familiar. Now what are you calling yourself these days?"

On the second day, when it came time for the heist, Raithe gave me a job I would have begged for (and, again, I didn't! I wouldn't!). He put his hand on my shoulder and whispered in my ear, "I know I can trust you. I know you understand what's going on here, possibly better than anyone."

And afterwards, when the heist was a success, when I'd handed the gem to Gaya, Raithe looked at me with actual tears in his eyes and thanked me.

And I said, my voice shaking, "I am so honored to have been a part of making this story."

That's a clip I do have. I'm so grateful to Justin, the man who filmed it and shared his footage with me afterwards (and to Shelby, Shannon, Lauren, Sean, Andrew, and Wendy for the photos and videos they took throughout the trip, too). As soon as the moment had passed, I'd already forgotten what any of us had said. It was truly that emotional. The performers understood why, and so did my crew. But the most incredible thing is that that moment meant something even to the people in the room who didn't understand the full meaning of my words. Three different strangers came up to me later that evening, separately, to tell me so - to thank me, even. One of them asked me if this was my first voyage.

"First as a guest," I replied.

This was the middle of August. I'm still riding the high of that show. I am normally a very anxious artist, full of so-called "imposter syndrome." But two days straight of love and validation and pure play will do something to your brain.

$6000 for this? What wouldn't I pay for this?

Even now - even today, September 28th, 2023 - as I type this blog post, the passengers on the final voyage of the Galactic Starcruiser have already boarded, and in less than half an hour, the performers will join them. Less than two days from now, this journey will be over. But I can't believe that this is the end. The end of this show, yes - all shows end, and many before their time. But not the end of the emotion, not the end of the love, not the end of the storytelling and the joy and the play and the together-as-one. I can't believe that. Because this was something that you can't put a price tag on, something that you can't sum up in as simple and easily-mocked as the phrase "the Star Wars hotel," and, frankly, it's silly to try.

We journeyed boldly. We cherished the moment. We made something worth celebrating and remembering. And we will do it again.