Chess is often used as a shortcut to showing that someone is smart in novels. Like the flighty heroine or rakish hero – putting them in front of a black and white board and having them whup ass is a very convenient and simple way of showing that there’s more to this Duke of Slut than just hot buns enclosed in a pair of smexy angsty pants. He’s smart with a capital ‘S’ as well, because, eh… I guess we all know that smart people like shuffling bishops across squares. Or something.
If this sounds like sour grapes, it totes is. I suck at chess. Always have.
When I was a child, my father would sometimes play chess with me on Sunday mornings. This was for a very brief time, you see, because he soon grew tired of it. I was an impossible opponent because I simply refused to grasp the rules.
See, I liked horses. The knights were little horses. Ergo, I did everything to conquer dad’s knights and everything to preserve my own. When I had all four of them, I considered myself a winner. That whole check mate business – I couldn’t be bothered with that. I just sat down to play with the all pretty horses, ignoring the board.
Today I can’t even be bothered to care about the horses. I suppose I’m a lost cause. Please tell me I’m not the only one.
I can’t play chess either, Felicia. No one in my family knew how, so I was never taught. I like the idea of playing chess. As you said, it shows you’re smart. But I don’t know if I would actually like it or not. Oh well, I’ll stay huddled in the ignorant masses.
The thing with chess is that it looks so cool, even thought it isn’t. Have you ever read The Eight? It’s an old paranormal thriller that revolves around chess. Very cool. It almost made me wish I liked playing. As did Eloisa James’ Desperate Duchesses. But no, I still hate it.