Learn from the Soaps

One soap opera has left the air: All My Children. Another his disappearing this week: One Life to Live. No matter how much folks malign soap operas—events too melodramatic—characters are always coming back from the dead—the writers have been doing something right all these years to keep millions of viewers interested for decades.

The main characters in the soaps are never wimps; they are strong characters with clear-cut goals, and the goals are always clearly stated in every scene so the viewer can root for the character or hope that she fails. The writers always hurl their characters into the worst trouble ever and let the beleaguered characters fight their way out of impossible situations. The writers always allow viewers to get into the characters' heads and know what those characters are thinking, thus making the characters' motivations clear. The writers always follow the principles of good scene writing: A character knows exactly what she wants, is met with opposing forces—which produce a tense conflict—a fierce struggle—and generally meets with defeat, a turning of the tables that makes things worse for the character. Next follows a sequel in which the character discusses her defeat with friends, sometimes, opponents, and decides on a new course of action. The soap opera writers also use dramatic irony very well: a situation in which the audience knows the truth but the characters in the story are unaware or believe the opposite is true. For example: John is holding Martha's baby in his arms, not realizing the baby is actually his, not Martha's husband's. And lastly, the soap opera writers are great at producing cliffhangers before every commercial break and at the end of every episode, especially on Friday—just as a fiction writer should try to end most of her chapters with a cliffhanger to keep the reader turning pages.

Yes, two soap operas are disappearing, but as a fiction writer, you would do well to utilize the proven story-telling techniques soap opera writers use to keep viewers glued to the TV screen.

The Birth of an Idea

Readers always wonder where writers get their ideas. The answer is simple, I think. Ideas come from events writers are involved in, hear about, read about, or are witnesses to. In the case of Summer and Lilacs most of the above are true. In the late '70s, I was teaching overseas and was also working as a counselor when I met a brilliant, beautiful, blonde student—I'll call her Audrey—arrived in my classroom, and later I became her counselor.

Her father was an officer on the military base where I taught. He was known to be a strict disciplinarian with his men and somewhat of a drinker. When Audrey came to class sometimes with bruises on her arms, even her face occasionally, all of us teachers thought perhaps she was being abused. Audrey always explained the bruises away, and, truth be told, they didn't seem serious enough for any of us to file a report with the base commander. As her counselor, I questioned Audrey about her home life many times, but she always maintained everything was perfectly fine.

Then a scandal rocked our base and school. An officer's wife reported that seventeen-year-old Audrey was having an affair with her husband. Rumors grew rampant, but none of us knew the exact details of the affair. Audrey left my class in tears, saying she and her mother were returning to the States; her father would remain on base until his tour of duty was up. The officer in question and his family were transferred; the officer wasn't charged with anything. The incident was swept under the rug.

But the image of brilliant, beautiful, blonde Audrey has always haunted me throughout the years—nagged me, honestly. Why hadn't I reported Audrey's possible abuse to anyone? What prompted her to have an affair with an officer—such a young child? What eventually happened to her? I finally reached the point where I felt I had to tell at least a fictional account of Audrey's life to rid myself of her image in my mind. The result is Summer and Lilacs.