It’s done in rooms tucked away from the rest of the house, or in the corner of an empty cafe.
Even when done somewhere crowded, on the train or in the library, the writer is still separate from everyone else. Their body may be there, but their mind is somewhere else completely.
Even when not writing, there’s a part of the writer that is disconnected to everyone else. They are the ones sitting in the the corner, watching life go by, making notes. Even when they take part, even when they are part of the crowd, there’s a part that steps back, and watches, and learns and remember and coolly writes the entire scene later.
Even in the middle of a blazing row, part of the writer’s mind is storing impressions and phrases and reactions to put on the page later.
The only time a writer shares is when someone reads their work. For a moment, the writer and reader form the perfect partnership, each understanding, questioning, supporting each other.
Then the reader puts down the book, and the writer is alone again.