People think of writing as a solitary activity, and for the most part, that’s true. I’ve yet to meet the novelist who can write while talking on the phone, although such a multi-tasking wonder probably exists.

Even if you’re forced, like Toni Morrison at the beginning of her career, to sit down at your desk with a squirming toddler on your lap, at a certain point, the writer’s inner life has to overtake, and even silence, the outer world. Otherwise, how could she begin to put pen to paper?

Let’s take it as a given that the writer charts a lonely course in the months and years of drafting a novel. He may share his progress — or lack thereof — with a long-suffering spouse or close colleague, but for the most part, the process boils down to an ancient antagonism: a lone imagination versus the blank page.

However, once the draft is done, it assumes a much more collaborative face. These days, there’s often an agent involved. If the manuscript passes muster with the agent — and if you’re very lucky — an editor, the representative of a publishing house, just might buy it.

And that purchase is only the beginning. The editor and author work together, often with the help of a small team, to revise and polish the manuscript. Once the manuscript is finalized, it’s then moved into production. Another team, the copy editors and proofreaders, attacks the book word by word, armed with a stack of general and in-house style manuals, catching as many inconsistencies and outright errors as they can find.

When there’s nothing more to be done with the text, it goes to typesetting, where it’s literally “put to bed” under the guidance of the interior designer, who selects the font and creates page layouts.

Now the marketing work begins. An artist creates the cover. The book is assigned to a publicity person, whose job is to shepherd the thing through the review season and then to bruit it in the far corners of the “blogosphere.”

And let’s not even talk about the sales force tasked with getting the novel onto bookstore shelves and fighting to keep it there!

You’ve probably seen the broad scope of this effort reflected in something called an “acknowledgments page.” This is where an author takes the opportunity to thank all the people who contributed to the book, sort of like the credits at the end of a movie. Publishing is like the movie business, in that the staff often works very hard for relatively low pay. The thrill of seeing their name in the pages of a novel, something they proudly helped bring into the world, can soften the sting of bad working conditions.

Occasionally, a writer will object to an “acknowledgements page” on aesthetic grounds. This selfish grinch will argue that the only person worthy of being singled out for gratitude in the pages of his novel is his long-suffering — actually, his decades-long-suffering — wife, in the form of a simple dedication after the title page. He’ll argue that credit rolls belong in the movies, not in literature. He’ll invoke his favorite novelists, none of whom loaded down their books with paeans to industry insiders.

By now you will have figured out that the grinch in question is…this guy!

It’s not a question of being ungrateful. Absolutely not. I owe a huge debt to the production team at Farrar, Straus & Giroux that has taken my novel, Marshlands, from rough draft to beautiful book. That debt will extend to the publication date (February 4th, 2014!) and beyond.

Which is why I was sitting at my desk last week, shaking cramps out of my right hand each time I added another good, old-fashioned, longhand “thank you” note to a growing stack. I made it a point to thank each person whose hand had touched my book — individually — a gesture my editor tells me will be deeply appreciated.

I hope she’s right. I’m still feeling a bit grinch-ish. A private note isn’t the same thing as a public acknowledgement. If I were a copy editor or a publicist, I’m not sure I’d prefer a note from the author over seeing my name on the acknowledgements page.

Even so, I’m a strong believer in the power of a personal “thank you.” It’s an undeniable thrill to see one’s name in print. But that’s largely about ego. A letter from a grateful colleague, on the other hand, is about the human connection at the heart of the enterprise.

And that connection is why we write books in the first place.