A Writer's Notebook, Two-Thousand-And-One-Hundred-And-Fifty-Nine

There are times when I write something and I am not certain about what exactly I am actually doing with it.  I don't mean that as a bad thing, but as something quite the opposite, really, as a recognition of trying to go farther and push my work into new places.  I do not always know, as I said, what I am doing when this happens.  Tonight, for example, I began, as I often do when feeling a bit stuck on writing a story, with an idea around why I hadn't written something that built from the idea of feeling like a story is hiding from me or being evasive in some way, which is a real sense I have had, and I suppose that the piece is, in part, a meditation on that kind of experience, but it is also a kind of strange metafictional piece where the stories I am writing are kind of personified in some sense.  I don't know if it works as a piece of fiction or is more a kind of micro-memoir thing, or something else entirely as it is rather disembodied and cerebral.  As I said above, I don't really know what it is or what I was doing.  I was playing and trusting in the work to guide me, and the result is something that I don't quite know how to define, and that seems pretty great to me, if I am honest.