Cormac McCarthy barely bothered with acknowledgment pages. Plenty of books—great books—don’t have them. The Clinic uses its acknowledgment page not to list names, but as a subtle extension of the book’s process. It offers insight into the journey, showing the labor behind the words. Cate Quinn used that page to add depth (and was probably my favorite part of the book).
If you decide to write one, start working on it early. Keep a document open from day one. Gather names and moments. This is your ledger of who made space for your work and who moved the book closer to existence.
You don’t have to thank everyone. You won’t remember everyone. Trying to cram in every acquaintance or casual reader only waters it down. If your indie, freedom lets you stretch that page out as far as you want, but restraint gives your words weight.
Editors and agents who shaped your manuscript should be there. The writing retreats or residencies where the book grew matter. Any grants or fellowships that bought you time deserve mention.
Critique partners belong only if their feedback changed your direction or deepened your writing. A few pages glanced over with lukewarm notes don’t earn space here.
Then there’s the invisible labor—the mentors who held you accountable, the friend who regularly took your kids so you could write, the librarian who unearthed a vital detail. These people are spines of the process. They can also add story into your acknowledgment page.
If you crowdfunded, name your patrons. Your work grew from collective belief.
And your people—the ones who live your life. Partners, parents, siblings, children, pets. This is where your heart is shown on the page.
The acknowledgment page is not a thank-you card but who helped carry the load. Who gave you time, space, and insight? That’s what you name.
What you might have missed:
I went away on vacation and never saw my husband in person again, and for over a year my body kept waiting to go back, like it hadn’t been informed of his infidelity. I was mid-trip visiting my parents out of state when I woke up to a text from my husband’s lover. I had known he was capable of such things, but as far as I knew, it had been seven years since his last affair. I had believed, with all the work we had put in to rebuilding after his last one, that part of our life was over. I got up and went to the next room and crawled into bed with my mother. I showed her the text, “Is this happening again?” I asked her. She put on her glasses and read the lengthy message on my phone from his mistress of three years, “Yes, I am sorry, it is.”
...When we look at a book like this with the intent to be inspired for our own work, we begin to see that the right text or image at the right time can carry our work forward without force. This is how glaciers move, or used to move, before so many of them began to vanish. They shaped what was around them without spectacle or speed, and even now, as they disappear, they leave behind something worth studying.
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