on Jane Friedman site:

In the two months since I gave birth to a book, I’ve discovered that post-partum publishing depression is a thing. Even when the baby doesn’t cry at all.

I’m not sure what I thought would happen after my memoir was published. Did I expect Oprah or Reese (or at the very least their people) to come begging to feature it in their book clubs?

Would Terry Gross reach out to my publicist for a Fresh Air interview?

Was the red carpet supposed to be rolled out especially for me to waltz down toward my acceptance of the Booker prize? (I know, the Booker is for fiction and I wrote a memoir, but a fantasy is a fantasy.)

Nah. Except for dreaming about a Netflix miniseries, my hopes are tamer, more subdued. I’m a singer and actor in my other life. I know how unlikely fame is, even for the most gifted among us; as Thomas Edison said, success is 10% inspiration and 90% perspiration. My expectations—I thought—were in check.

So why am I feeling so generally bummed out since my memoir Crash was published?