I write, therefore I love Scrabble. Wrong.
I hate Scrabble. I love words for their content, not their structure.
A scrabbler sees gambol as: 4 consonants, 2 vowels, total value 15. But gambol is so much more! There’s bounce in the word, there’s air, exclamation marks, kitten-play, spring, wheat fields!
Scrabble is word warfare. Writing is friendship. A two-way thing. Words come when I need them, and when a word really, really wants to have its say, I wouldn’t dream of saying no.
How can you compare the thrill of finding a gem of a word to express a feeling, a mood, a scene, to the thrill of finding a word worth 56 points?
I feel guilty when I play scrabble, like I should apologise to my tiny friend for demeaning it. Sorry pert, you cheeky little thing, I know it’s embarrassing being next to matt, tent and pun, but it’s worth a lot to me. Pffff. That’s not friendship, that’s exploitation.
But my words forgive me. I may lapse into the big bad world of scrabble, but my words know my heart. They rock.
And between you and me…? I think they quite like their occasional tryst on the scrabble board.