Note: It is Morgan Tyler’s first day in her new position as both head writer of the TV daytime drama “Love of My Life” and as co-executive producer. A note from the network’s new Head of Daytime has been sent to Morgan, but before she can open it, her assistant opened the door. 

Betty pronounced five words that made my insides tighten.

“Cybelle wants to see you.”

“Do you know why?”

“Actors never come to the producer’s office just to say hello.” Betty cocked one heavy eyebrow at me. ‘I’m not getting enough air time,’ or ‘I don’t like my story line,’” she mimicked. “Or my personal favorite: ‘I hate kissing my acting partner.’”

Five years ago, when I began as an associate writer on Love of My Life, I asked the man who was then head writer, “What does the producer do?”

“Clean up the shit,” he had said. 


Now it was my turn to wield the mop.

“Send her in,” I said. “And hold my calls for a few minutes.”

Betty nodded, and moments later ushered the actress into the office, closing the door behind her.

Delicate, stunning Cybelle Carter, with her jet-black hair and big round eyes, was one of the most popular young stars on our show.  She greeted me with a soft “Hi, Morgan,” and a nervous smile. As she perched on the edge of one of Tommy’s Queen Anne chairs, I glanced at the Global Broadcasting Network envelope addressed to me. I was curious, but I didn’t want to be rude to Cybelle. I put the envelope down unopened.

I looked up at her, but Cybelle was gazing at the show’s genealogy chart, which was tacked on the wall behind Tommy’s side of the desk. In the form of a graph, it stretches four feet wide and two feet high, diagramming all of the continuing characters on Love of My Life and listing who is connected—biologically or emotionally—to whom. This is an essential tool for keeping the relationships straight in a show that has been on the air five days a week, fifty-two weeks a year, for thirty years. Love was born the same year I was.

Cybelle grinned with delight. “There I am,” she said, pointing to her place on the graph. Each character is represented by a small oval-shaped photo of the actor playing the part, the pictures hung like Christmas tree ornaments from their branches of the complex, multi-character story.

She turned her attention from the chart to me. “I’m so glad they made you a producer,” she said. “Tommy’s nice, but it’s great to be able to talk to a fellow woman about this problem I have.”

Uh-oh.

“What is it?”

She hesitated for a moment, as though gathering her courage. “I’m really a natural blonde—like you, Morgan.” She stroked a lock of the brunette hair that made her resemble Disney’s Snow White.

“That’s unusual,” I said. “When women color they usually go from dark hair to light, not the other way.”

“Oh, but I am a real blonde.” The urgency in her voice startled me. “You can ask anybody who’s seen me naked. Or…” she glanced around the office as if to make sure we were still alone. “It’s just us girls—I could give you a peek.”

“No, that’s okay,” I said quickly. “I’ll take your word for it, Cybelle.”

I’m a writer, not a gynecologist.

I decided to hurry Cybelle along by guessing why she had come to see me. “Do you want permission to go blonde on the show?”

Cybelle drew back as though she’d been struck.

“Oh, no!” Now there was desperation in her voice. “If I was a blonde again he could recognize me, and find me. Morgan, if he finds me, he’s going to kill me!”