Surrealistic Dilemna

The Muse apparently possessed the new typewriter because a story suddenly developed from it. This Muse put me into a state of confusion because this story turned out to be more fun than the serious literary novel. I found myself at this same place last summer at about the same time. The story is fanciful, about letters and words slipping their moorings and dripping out of pages, pulled by gravity and seeking their source at the center of the earth from where all words rise. The problem is that I am enjoying this story more than the novel and feeling guilty in that enjoyment (please don't use this opportunity to comment on underlying Lutheran guilt). I feel sort of naughty in writing silliness or surrealism. Then I look at the writers I've enjoyed reading and find the surreal ones are more to my liking. Vonnegut, Borges (my current read), Marquez, and the like. Part of the problem may be that the section of the novel that I'm working on is realistic and less surreal, primarily because the central character of this section is realistic where the other main character "hears voices." This reminds me too much last summer's novel in a month experiment which was surreal. Or the iguana story which was plainly surrealistic. Maybe the problem is less of a problem after all.