When John launched his Substack a few weeks ago, my main thought was: finally! After years of struggling as a screenwriter in the barren wasteland we call Hollywood, he had a new outlet to showcase his talent. He would no longer be limited to a few executives whose decisions are fueled more by algorithms than taste. Even more importantly, he would be writing in prose—a medium where his mastery of language is able to shine unlike in the more mechanical screenplay format. I was thrilled. It felt like a clear solution to a problem that had been plaguing him for months. He was going to get his spark (and his identity) back. Plus, I could take credit for being the one to suggest it! (I am never shy about praise of any kind, especially the you were right variety).

John went to bed the night before his launch convinced no one would want to read his work on masculinity and family estrangement. I was much more confident he would slowly and steadily find an eager audience. But neither of us expected the immediate, meteoric response. In one month, he has gained 3.7k subscribers and has been featured on multiple “new bestseller” and “rising” lists within the platform. His essays are filled with a multitude of heartfelt comments about the beauty of his writing and how much his words have impacted people. People finally know what I realized early on in our relationship—John is a hell of a writer.

And I am…also a writer. Whose insecurities about my own abilities are coming to the forefront every time I read something my brilliant husband has written. Damn, that is good, I think. I wish I could write like that. And then I try to remain calm as wifely pride and uncomfortable jealousy duke it out in my brain.

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It is a tricky thing to be in the same field as your spouse. For one, you actually know if they are good at what they do because you know how to do it too. If I were married to a surgeon or an engineer, I would have to rely on other people’s feedback and context clues. Did their patient die during surgery? Did their building burn down in an electrical fire? The details of their aptitude would remain a mystery because I wouldn’t have the necessary insight to adequately assess it. Just the other day my sister remarked that the main reason she knows her husband is a talented trader and investor is because she lives in a nice house. Different paths enable a cleaner separation of home life and work life.

On the flip side, sharing a career allows for added intimacy. John and I often edit each other’s work and talk through story problems over breakfast the way other couples might plan a complicated vacation. He has heavily influenced my work since we’ve been together, and I like to think I have had an impact on his. For instance, by running a monthslong campaign for him to start a freaking Substack. Despite his resistance and attempt to write literally anything else because he thought no one would care what he had to say week after week. (Happy to report that sometimes strategic nagging works, folks!)

Until recently, it didn’t bother me too much that John had a better command of language than me. I have always taken a practical approach to my writing, leaning into my strengths while not expecting to be a literary genius. I don’t tackle projects that feel beyond my capacity (like sci-fi) and I embrace a “good enough” approach. I often credit my success with not being too precious about my work, which allows me to make more of it.

This mindset was especially crucial as I made the transition from thinking of myself as a screenwriter to introducing myself as an author because books were suddenly the only thing I was able to sell. Not that I am complaining. I still feel the urge to pinch myself when I remember I’ve published five books with a sixth on the way. But my BFA degree and my confidence lie in screenwriting. When I return to an old script, I tend to think, wow, this is clever! Why didn’t they make this! The type of enthusiastic reaction that is mostly absent when I review my various prose pieces.

Since being with John and seeing his process, I’ve come to better understand what is missing in my essays, nonfiction and novels. It’s not a lack of emotional punch, humor or insight. It’s a command over the words themselves that results in an unequivocal voice. A personal style that lets the reader know I am completely in control. Rather than how I often feel—which is fumbling to express my thoughts in a way that makes sense and doesn’t overuse and, but, or since. For someone who is such an avid reader, I still find myself wondering, how do books even work? What counts as a scene? Is this the right tense? I am confronted with gaps in technical knowledge that I don’t feel when writing scripts. Having had my latest non-fiction book canceled by its original publisher doesn’t help with this insecurity. My (ex) editor’s comment that my first draft read like a research paper is scarred into my brain for me to pick at whenever I feel particularly vulnerable and filled with self-doubt.

These masochistic moments are more common now that John is publishing his incredible work once a week. I keep waiting for people to realize the disparity between our abilities and abandon my writing for his. I’m realizing it is easier to look good at something when there is no one to directly compare to. But I have opened the door for that comparison—even if it is just in my own mind—and now I have to figure out what to do with it.

The easiest option would be to lean into our differences. He is writing deeply personal essays without in-your-face takeaways while I am trying to offer advice or insight through the lens of my own experiences. This framing allows me to focus less on my writing itself and more on its content and impact. It is a loophole that doesn’t require me to have to develop the type of strong voice and command of language that I long for in the middle of the night as I think about my favorite books and how much I would like to one day write literary fiction. (If only I was a good enough to pull it off—my insecurity quickly reminds me.) But taking that route would be depriving myself of one of the greatest benefits of marriage: our ability to make each other better.

For all my gross envy around John’s new endeavor, there is a simultaneous desire to get better. To learn from this man I already share my life with rather than feel threatened by his brilliance. To see if maybe I have been holding myself back by assuming I can’t possibly achieve my goals so why even try. It’s not lost on me that this is the exact line of thinking John was stuck in before finally taking the plunge to start Wrong Man For The Job. Maybe the results of pushing past my fears will surprise me too. Maybe they won’t. Either way, I know we will both be proud of me for trying.

xoxo,

Allison

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