I don't mean my relationship with the reader, because to be honest I almost never think about the reader when I'm writing. I mean my relationship with the story, or with the creative force from which the story arose. Some people call that force the muse, others call it their own subconscious. For me, though, it is simply the story, which somehow has a life and spirit of its own, even before it's been told. And each story has a different spirit, a whole different mood.
For as long as it takes to tell it ... and a while afterwards, the basking while ... it's just me and story, meeting together with a mutual excitement and love for the characters and ideas that are held between us. I do manage a life and relationships outside of that - although itt's fair to say that I do so by sacrificing housework, reading, and most of my interest in the affairs of the world.
And when I do notice the world around me, I find it so often speaks towards my relationship with the story I'm currently writing. The scintillation on morning grass reminds me of a certain character's smile. The wind brushing my hair makes me think of how a sigh brushes against the heroine's heart. Perhaps the story is a voice of nature, and so it whispers to me through trees and dew as well as words. Or perhaps nature blesses and encompasses my love for the creative force.
The actual writing part is fairly simple. Seldom do paragraphs come into consideration. Rather, I sense the story shift over my skin and murmur in my mouth, and then the words I type give that sensation a shape. Their size, their colour, the way they fit together - it's writing by feel, I guess.
After the story is done and sent into the world, I almost never go back to read it again. The words have changed. They've become something for the reader, rather than a secret conversation between me and that story. What I have left for myself is the memory of how my blood tumbled or stalled while I was dreaming, typing, revising. The taste of the tale. The texture of it as it whittled away at my heart.
What's lonely for me is not writing.
(Not meaning to be argumentative here. This post was inspired by the opposite thoughts of another writer - a greater writer than me, for that matter. I loved their thoughts, and they got me pondering about how I was different. Not better, or worse, just different.)