So, you want to write cookbook? Well, come sit by me. I wrote “The Comfort Diner Cookbook” (Clarkson Potter, $18) with the restaurant’s owner, Ira Freehof. The book, a collection of the diner’s top recipes, hits the shelves this month, but I will now let you in on all the true glamour, the sheer fabulousness that is part and parcel of writing a cookbook.

Here goes. The year I spent writing this book was the most intense period of work that I had ever gone through. It was grueling. It was also deliriously good fun. My friends and family pitched in to keep me hysterically laughing, which prevented me from passing out from sleep deprivation. In the words of a college pal after a fraternity episode: It was the best time I never want to have again.

It all started in early 2002. I met Mr. Freehof while I was writing a food column for the New York Post. I had worked with Mr. Freehof’s public relations team, Karen Schloss and Frank Diaz, a few times before. And when I came to the Comfort Diner (to learn the secrets of the milk shakes) we all got along rather well. I was pleasantly surprised when Ms. Schloss called me later to suggest a meeting with Mr. Freehof. He wanted a cookbook for the restaurant, and was I interested in a writing gig?

The fact that I had neither gone to culinary school nor attended a single cooking class didn’t seem to bother anybody. I had learned from writing my column how to turn the most esoteric chef recipes into usable home recipes. The Comfort Diner is known for its modern takes on traditional diner food, and Mr. Freehof wanted to create a lively, easy-to-use book. That I was not a trained culinary student seemed to fit the bill: I knew how to test recipes, but, more importantly, I could translate Mr. Freehof’s folksy sense of humor into print.

Once we agreed to the project, we found an agent. We wrote a proposal – slowly – that she sent around to several publishers in 2003. And one day, she called us and said, “Let’s make a deal.” Once I had a deadline (September 1, 2004), I did what any writer would do: nothing. I didn’t lift a finger for months. Then I made a declaration: I would not leave New York City until the manuscript was turned in, and it would be on time. I made one exception, for a dear friend’s wedding in Virginia in August. And I sent the draft in on September 2. (Close enough.)

The process of creating a restaurant cookbook is all about collaboration. As the writer, I went back to the source – Mr. Freehof – for recipes that he could remember or had written on paper. It turned out that quite a lot of the information came from the diner’s head cook, the patient Eugenio “Chivo” de Los Santos.

Mr. Freehof had started with a number of recipes, many of them created in his own home kitchen, when the restaurant opened nearly 10 years ago. Over the years, much had changed. Many written recipes were lost or became unnecessary. In the case of the buttermilk biscuits, for example, Mr. de Los Santos knew the procedure by rote, so why bother with writing it down? Along the way, recipes had changed. On paper, the Yankee pot roast is made with an orange-and-mustard sauce, but in the diner, it is made now with a tomato-based sauce. No one ever wrote down the new version.

Quite apart from all that, in many cases the recipes were designed to feed small armies. Pancake batter, for instance, has to be made by the gallon to satisfy legions of brunching New Yorkers. Reducing these quantities to four or six servings required the use of more math skills than I have used since the 11th grade.

To glean the facts, I would watch and interview Mr. de Los Santos to understand how a dish was made and what it should taste like. I would then replicate the recipe in my own kitchen, getting as close to the restaurant version as possible. Before each recipe in the book comes a short introduction that describes the dish. For these, I would interview Mr. Freehof. His tidbits, anecdotes, and jokes are the heart of the book, just as his personality is the heart of the restaurant.

All of this was done according to a fairly strict work plan that I devised. And it also happened around my job at The New York Sun. My weeks were booked solid, so the cooking happened on the weekends. On Thursdays I would send a fax to the diner containing a list of ingredients I needed to test certain recipes. On Friday after work, I would go to the diner on 45th Street and pick up the ingredients, then head home.

If the kitchen didn’t have something I needed, I would it pick up at the supermarket. There were some distinctions that I discovered – the hard way, of course. Certain cuts of meat had to come from the grocery store, because that’s where a reader would be buying meat. Also, the carrots delivered to the restaurant are huge (and ugly). Supermarket carrots are smaller (and prettier), which means that the home cook needs more of them. This I also learned the hard way.

But not everything was painful to learn. I discovered the joys of grilling pork chops at 8 a.m.(If that’s when you happen have the time, that’s when you have to do it.) I developed the ability to understand where a recipe goes wrong – and how to fix it.

Many friends took the time to test recipes for which I needed an outside opinion. My colleagues were encouraging, often inspiring. Willing victims came over for lunch or dinner; some stayed for several hands of Uno. My mom came to town and helped me enormously with everything. My friend Charlotte was always willing to chop vegetables, fry clam fritters, wash dishes – and then tell me to step away from the couch and toward the computer. Woe to the cookbook author without a posse.

As for the writing, it was usually a welcome relief from cooking. But I got a few rude awakenings during the editing process. Cookbook copy editors, it should be noted, are in a hallowed category. They’re the people who add up the tablespoons of butter in a recipe, and tell the writer that she’s short one tablespoon in the ingredients list. You can run, but you cannot hide from a cookbook copy editor.

After I turned in the second draft, it was more or less behind me. There were some surprises in the edits, but for the most part, it was done. By the time I dragged my listless frame home for Christmas, I swore – in Scarlett O’Hara fashion – that I’d never have another year like 2004. I do hope to write another book someday. Maybe even a cookbook. But if I do, that’s all I’ll do, until it’s done.