The woman at the gym had always wanted to be a painter, she said on another day when we met in the locker room. I thought I could make it but I wasn’t sure, she said, because that’s how it is when you’re starting out and you haven’t had a chance to prove yourself. Most of my teachers were men, she said, and I remember how two in particular really encouraged me. They were always telling me how good I was. Of course, they were also always coming on to me, but that wasn’t any surprise, other men came on to me too, and a lot of male teachers came on to their female students back then, that’s just how it was. But I couldn’t help having doubts. I couldn’t be sure if they really liked my work or they just liked me. I couldn’t ignore the fact that my one female teacher wasn’t as impressed with my work as the men were. But then I thought maybe she was just being competitive or jealous, like a lot of women are, and in fact one of the men assured me that this was definitely the case. The longer this went on, the more confused I got, she said. I didn’t know who to trust, I couldn’t tell what was sincere, what was flattery. I lost all confidence in my own judgment. I’m not trying to make excuses. If being an artist really had been my destiny, I know nothing should have stopped me. But when I look back I think, My God, those men! They really had me turned around. I couldn’t tell what was real anymore.

One day around the time David Foster Wallace killed himself, I asked the woman at the gym if she remembered that our first conversation had been about Infinite Jest. She did not, and she thought I’d made a mistake. She’d heard of the book, but she was pretty sure she hadn’t read it. I never read long books like that, she said. Who has the time?

IV

Women’s stories are often sad stories.