Let's just say that inspiration is a mysterious gift that, in the hands of a "real writer," in the deliberate and conscious exercise of craft is carefully, patiently, and lovingly developed into as complete an expression of that inspired moment as the writer is able to manage. While not averse to the promptings of logic or analysis, the "real writer" accepts the gift, opens herself or himself to that inspiration, and allows the whole mind (right and left brain alike) to recombine the world "in its very atoms." The result is a creation, that, like the larger creation (or just call it the real world, if you prefer), is complex, engaging, frightening, ambiguous, beautiful, baffling, threatening, consoling, runic, and ultimately richly and meaningfully satisfying. Rhyme and meter and the essentially rhythmical nature of all "real writing," whether in poetry or fiction, may be nothing more or less than an expression of the meaningful order inherent in the cluttered Babel of language, or perhaps the meaningful order inherent in the chaos of reality itself (what William James called the "humming-buzzing confusion" of experience).
R.H.W. Dillard, Going Out Into the Crazy, at Blackbird Review