It's a solitary hell to the writing Lunatic. The writing Lunatic is in the middle of a fray, almost the more noise the better. The writing Lunatic has a notepad, or laptop computer with a wireless uplink, or one of the infamous three-ring binders. Ideally, if I wanted to really write, I would be stretched out full-length on a couch or the floor, propped up on my elbows, headphones on and mood music blasting in my ears just ever so slightly above the buzz of local conversation. I sprawl on the floor writing, occasionally rearranging myself with utter disregard for the safety of objects around me, cackling with glee as I write something that I particularly like (especially when the characters are having a horribly angsty time), occasionally pounding my head on a nearby shoulder if they just won't do as told.
My writing thrives on social contact. I take everything in, and while I'm processing, kick out the stuff that was in the back of my mind, sometimes flavored with the current ambiance. Papers scatter around me, I post to LJ frequently with the latest updates on the mindspace, I bounce ideas off friends local and distant, and I write. I write, I edit, I revise, I cackle madly as the old ideas line up anew and finally click into place with each other, and I write.
I want the peace and quiet for reading. I need near-silence and no distractions. I can fall into the book's world better that way, sink into a cushioned corner on my back and lose the world for hours. A good book can pull me in through noise and crowd and laughter and fun, but I prefer the silence, so the world won't pass me by while I'm lost in the pages.