In Greek Mythology, Procrustes was a man with a magical “one size fits all” bed. He had a house on the edge of the road, similar to a bed and breakfast, where he would invite travelers in for a meal and a night’s stay in his mystical bed. What he did not inform his guests, was that he quite literally made them fit into his bed by either stretching them by their limbs on a rack if they were too small…or cutting their appendages off if they were too tall. It is also interesting to note that the name Procrustes actually means “the stretcher”, or “he who stretches”. Eventually Procrustes met his inevitably ghastly demise by a patron who indeed fit Procrustes into his own bed. Karma, eh?
Nowadays, a Procrustean bed is an arbitrary standard to which precise conformity is forced. In other words, a stipulation of indisputable adherence to the mold required. This kind of regulation terrifies me and I write about it to state, without a shadow of a doubt, that I will not be yielding to any type of structure when it comes to my writing. I believe that writing should be more about the ebb and flow and journey itself instead of the destination and reaching some type of unrealistic goal. Don’t get me wrong, goals are wonderful. But I would much rather just write my heart out until I am so full of happiness that my soul smiles instead of shoving myself into a metaphorical literary box (toss out the key) attempting to write for NY Times or something of equal caliber. I hope that I never get lost in the madness that is conventionality and that I constantly strive to be extraordinary and unforgettable. For to be successful inside of a cage is not true success at all but a facade of all things humanly desired, delusive to the eye and tempting to the outsider but deleterious to the person caught in the web of emptiness. The spider sits by idly biding his time before feeding on the remaining hopes and oringinality deteriorating inside of the mind. ©