Two Stories With The Same Ending

“The problem is, there’s one of two stories here,” I said.  “And I don’t know which one I’m in.”
Gini kept a respectful distance, close enough to hug if I needed it, far enough that I could speak.
“In the one story,” I continued, “All of this pain and frustration and heartache I’m going through is the low point in the third act.  And if that’s the case, it’s like Clarion, where I had a complete breakdown in Week Five, yet in Week Six I wrote the first story that I ever sold to Asimov’s.  So maybe this wretched failure is just me breaking through to something greater.
“But the other story – which is equally possible – is far sadder.  That’s the story where the old mediocre guy keeps trying over and over again, and never realizes when he should quit.  And that’s the one where he spends the next twenty years flailing, chasing a dream that he’s totally ill-equipped for, wasting all of this time and effort on something that he’s not very good at and yet is too obsessive to let go of.  And then all those evenings devoted to the craft become sad, wasted, a mountain of lost time.
“I don’t know what story I’m in,” I concluded, spreading my hands.  “And it’s killing me.”
Gini looked at me seriously, weighing the options, debating how to present the truth.
“I don’t know which story you’re in, either,” she finally admitted.  “But I know your story always ends with the wife who loves you more than anything.”
And I melt.