Years ago, I worked with a woman who was a very good writer. I remember one piece in particular, a column about a woman dying on the streets of Manhattan attended by strangers who belied the image of the cold-hearted New Yorker. It was a terrific piece of writing and I told this colleague as much. She snorted and shot me a look that suggested that and $1 would get her a cup of coffee. I took no offense. Her defining quality was a bitter frustration that stemmed from her being the mistress of one of the company’s higher-ups. Ironically, though her situation had gotten her foot in the door, it had also locked her into a clerical job for fear of the appearance of favoritism that the staff writing job she coveted would’ve surely provoked.

Apart from the clerical job, all her sleeping her way to the middle had really earned her was the contempt and merciless gossip of the women she worked with. I being a newbie and of a different temperament didn’t hate her. But I pitied her, which was perhaps far worse. ...