Chapter 3: Mad Magazine and the Poly Parakeet

​Some of the best advice I ever got about what to do if you want to be a better writer: Write.

It seeems simple, but it's true. In fact, many famous writers say write something every day, no matter what the topic or format. It could even be a diary. Some, like Ernest Hemingway, had a daily routine. For him, he liked to start at sunrise (maybe the inspiration for "The Sun Also Rises"? -- probably not.)

As I got more and more serious about writing, I traded my "Science Digest" subscription for one to "Writer's Digest." I spent a lot of time at the Fort Worth Public Library, searching the shelves for biographies of famous writers, so I could learn what motivated them, what influenced their work.

For instance, I discovered that Jack London, who wrote "Call of the Wild" and "White Fang," had a system for expanding his vocabulary. Every time he encountered a word he didn't know, he wrote it on a piece of paper and hung it on a clothesline in his room. That inspired me to do the same with index cards.

It also seemed important for writers not to have a thin skin. So many of the greats probably could have papered their walls with rejection notices. I recall the first one I got, and it had nothing to do with writing.
Let me explain.

As what you might call a geeky kid, I was painfully shy. One of the ways I tried to overcome my shyness was with humor. I discovered early on I could make people laugh with some clever remark or joke I had heard. So humor became one of tools in my writer's toolbox.

Like many in my generation, I was hooked on "Mad Magazine." Their spoofs of TV, movies and the culture at large I thought were brilliant. So I got this idea for a six-panel cartoon strip, based on the popular Japanese monster movie, "Rodan." There's a scene where this giant egg hatches in a cave and Rodan emerges to startled onlookers. In my cartoon -- which of course I drew by hand -- the egg in the cave starts to crack, and cracks, and cracks some more, until finally in the last panel a giant yolk emerges and covers the onlookers.

I thought it was pretty darn clever, and promptly mailed to if off to the Mad Magazine editors. After frantically checking the mailbox for weeks, a letter finally arrived from Mad, with their "mascot," Alfred E. Newman embossed on the letterhead. Breathlessly, I opened it and read:

"You've been rejected." Well, they didn't sugarcoat it, did they? 

Okay, maybe my artwork was crude, but you have to admit, it was pretty funny.

With my cartoon career on hold, I had visions of someday writing the Great American Novel, no doubt the same dream of every aspiring writer. But there was something else that stood out as I read about the great novelists: Many lead troubled lives, filled with personal tragedy, prone to bouts of depression, bedeviled by drinking and drugs. I thought to myself, "Is pain and suffering the price you have to pay to achieve greatness?"

In a sense, that may be true. Writers tend to write what they know, what they experience. To truly understand the depths of sadness or the heights of joy, maybe you have to have been there. It was a sobering thought. But then I realized you don't start out to pen the next great masterpiece. You simply write, and see where it goes.

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My 10th Grade Yearbook photo

To see where it goes, writers need at some point to showcase their work, and I got a chance to do that when I entered the 10th grade at Polytechnic High School in Fort Worth. Built high on a bluff in the mid-to-late 1930s, this imposing Georgian Revival building served students from the surrounding historic Poly area, and was a real change from my middle school in more ways than one. Depending on where your classes were, you sometimes had to huff and puff to make them on time.

Poly was an amazing school, with amazing teachers committed to the task of preparing students for college, and life. But there was one thing that other high schools gave us grief over: Our mascot. Instead of more traditional mascots, like Cougars, Bulldogs or Panthers, we were the Fighting Parrots. Huh? Fort Worth is nowhere near the tropics, so go figure.

I should also mention the choice of the school's colors was equally strange: Orange and black. It was like we were celebrating Halloween year-round. Or maybe orange is the new black?

Regardless, from the moment I arrived, I had my sights set on the school newspaper, appropriately named -- what else? -- "The Parakeet." I quickly expressed my interest in contributing content and they gave me a shot.

Officially, I was listed on the masthead as a reporter, but that first year I got to do a little bit of everything: Humor columns, headlines, editorials, sports reporter, news stories. I was in newspaper heaven. One of my specialties was satire, which sometimes had unintended consequences. I penned one article in our April Fool's edition informing students class rings would be delivered in a new way -- via a dump truck. Everyone had to identify their ring by examining the initals on the band. What a surprise when a girl came to the Parakeet office sobbing because she was certain she could never find her ring. 

That first year, I was even able to scratch my poetry itch with this little ditty in the Parakeet:

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ROVER
By GERRY BARKER

There is a little beggar, with sad eyes for a hat,
Who chews upon the paper, and sometimes on the cat.
Who sleeps all the day, and barks all the night,
Known to the neighbors by his cute little bite.
As a faithful guardian, his judgment might be rash,
Chasing down poor father, assaulting defenseless trash.
Still I like the little scamp, as do father and mother,
We almost have to, for you see, Rover is my brother.

That's me on the left, in the Parakeet office. How about that snazzy sweater?
(From the Yearbook)

As I proved my worth, I got more opportunities to get creative. One example was a three-part mystery called "The Case of the Missing Lockers," for which I appropriated my two favorite sleuths, Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson. Just to be different, I wrote it under the pseudonym "G.J. Anonymous," using my first two initials. That was fun.

But working on the high school newspaper wasn't just about the writing, reporting and editing. Staffers were also tasked to help fund our efforts through advertising sales, which I discovered quickly wasn't my forte. My sales pitch would be more akin to the timid guy who walks into a store and says, "You wouldn't want to buy an ad, would you?"

It brings to mind a poster I saw pinned to a wall later at the Fort Worth Star-Telegram. It depicted an Old West gunslinger with the message: "Around these parts we shoot every third salesman. Number two just left."

Not wanting to come back to my editor empty-handed, I did what students have been doing since time immemorial: Beg my relatives. One of my aunts ran a real estate business in Waco, TX. (only about 100 miles away), while I had an uncle in Atlanta, GA. (the city of my birth) who worked at Rich's department store (only about 1,000 miles away). Whether it was my slick presentation or they just felt sorry for me (no question the latter), both agreed to place an ad in the Parakeet.

Readers had to be sratching their heads when they saw an ad that read, "See Bud Watt at Rich's -- Belvedere Plaza, Decatur, Georgia." Or the one for "Judd Real Estate & Insurance" in Waco. 

All in all, it was an exhilerating time in my life. I was doing what I loved -- writing -- on a regular basis, and seeing ny name in print was an ego-adrenaline rush. Suddenly my career path came into sharp focus. My destiny was working in newspapers -- I was sure of it.
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