Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer slings and arrows ... or not | MARK HUGHES COBB

Long and far away, an editor paid me a compliment. In lieu of dollars.

Not unicorn-level rare, but given often-fraught relationships between failed writers — The joke: Editors are failed writers; so are most writers — anything that stretches beyond "Good" (with luck, not followed by "God") catches the ear.

"You write like people should talk."

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Years later, a sort-of girlfriend — speaking of failed — told me "You talk like you're in a movie."

If it's between "My Man Godfrey," "Raiders of the Lost Ark," "Excalibur," "The Princess Bride" and "Casablanca," well all right all right all right. I'm bein' foolish.

Another poor correspondent noted my references — pop culture largely, but mishmashed inside my scatterbrain so as to resemble source material only the way chicken fingers resemble chickens, or fingers — required footnotes.

So I wrote her a letter that amounted to one extended footnote about phrases in boldface, with running commentary under each that underlined callbacks, misheard song lyrics, references to things no one else could possibly have read, as I hadn't published 'em, and most likely a movie or 16, where I learned how to talk like the heroes .... You can Google that one.

The opening grafs, which I just glanced at — even failed writers keep copies of everything, never knowing what might prove a useful tool — referenced early Beatles; the ham of "Hamlet"; either a TV show I've heard of but never seen, or a children's car-trip game; the 1939 "The Wizard of Oz" film, and L. Frank Baum's books; puns on Audi, metaphor, journals and urinals, saviour complexity, being human/human being, and annotation itself; followed by Neil Young, Billie Holiday, Otis Redding, Alan Jay Lerner, Frank Mercer, Nicol Willamson's Merlin, "Doctor Who," Madeline Kahn in "Clue," Conan O'Brien, Tommy Lee Jones' "I don't care!" and Cajun slang.

What I'm saying is, for all those who have kindly noted that they read my stuff — I'm guessing they mean this column, alive for more than 30 years now, rather than more straightforward bylined work elsewhere in the paper — but don't get it, lucky you.

At least you're not having to pore over my letters, pouring numerous beverages to wash 'em down.

What triggered that was an apparently serious question: "Is this what it's like in your brain? Is that how it works?," to which I first responded "Works?," then "I'll tell it to you slowly," then "Brains," because we'd walked past lunch, and we were not yet there, in the sense of the "there" couples try to reach: Zombies, the band, "She's Not There," and "Time of the Season," plus probably Willy Wonka/Shakespeare, for all we know.

Meandering can be useful, when channeled. I was a bit stunned to discover Stephen Sondheim — from his own mouth, with Terry Gross on "Fresh Air" — used a rhyming dictionary, but that gave me added respect for people who actually work at things, like work, and don't simply try to play them into being.

Talking with my cast for "A Midsummer Night's Dream," some of whom are newbies to the Rude Mechanicals — others new friends, even new to theater itself — I found one lived a stone's throw from where I for years typed, just across a lot and swimming pool. Smallish world in a 100,000-plus city, knowing we'd probably waved or howdied or at least shruggingly acknowledged one another years before we met.

Our current owners sold that building to the city of Tuscaloosa, an edifice constructed for us circa 2002 by former owners The New York Times Regional Media Group, at a cost of about $30 million. The building, parts of it, certainly the site, which is not in any way built on a burial ground — That's up the hill, under the pool — will someday find life as the Saban Center, and hooray, I say. It's certainly better than yet another something-plex, or chicken finger joint, though not as cool as the underwater Art Deco bowling alley I envisioned.

Glow with it.

Going with it is the secret, if there is one. Young fellas at the gym sometimes approach me, the old fella, because I'm A) somewhat larger and more V-ish than average, and B) not dead. They ask for my ancient Caucasian secrets.

First secret: There are no secrets. It's a lifetime of hammering away, never reaching Michelangelo shape, unless you mean the irradiated Chelonian who consumes vast quantities of pizza.

Second secret: Pay attention to everything, and nothing, so you don't get distracted. Hear what your body's saying, which after about 30, is largely "Ouch," "Stop that," and "What were you thinking?," drowning out what was once "Go time!," "Oh yeah?" and "Hey y'all; watch 'is!"

Gathered together under one Allen Bales Theatre, I've assembled teachers, lawyers, designers, art leaders, musicians and some folks I honestly don't know much about, except that they show up and contribute to an overall effort.

We've talked about the difficulty of sharing those things we've gathered: knowledges, insights, the narrow poorly-lit spaces just around the corner from rationality where we once dug out a crumb of clarity that held up in the light. We are, most of us, engaged in sharing, as teachers, as leaders, as "creatives," and yes that makes me cringe, too, but it's as apt a catch-all as any, given that "artists" still feels a bit high-falutin' in most mouths.

It used to bother me, knowing I have literally thousands of friends, results of a life sprawling out long, and of the various things I do, which tug me toward all sorts of scenic routes, yet that only hundreds show for something all my fellow creatives co-birthed, precious and alive for a limited time only.

Then, the secret: Forget 'em. Notice who is there. They are the matter.

Mark Hughes Cobb is the editor of Tusk. Reach him at [email protected].

This article originally appeared on The Tuscaloosa News: Where is fancy bred? In the heart, or in the head? | MARK HUGHES COBB