When visiting classrooms, and the question comes up about what part of writing I like best, I often refer to the time spent writing a book as being inside a funnel.

At the beginning of the writing process, you find yourself luxuriating in the large end — the entry end — as if it were a giant pool. A world-sized pool, in fact. Everything is possible. The story can include this, it has room for that, and that other, marvelous episode will find a perfect home here, too. It is a liberating and expansive activity, these first days of writing.

As time moves on, however, you find yourself descending from the wide end toward the narrow end. You begin to understand that this particular story does not have room for all of those wonderful ideas. Well, that’s all right. You’re still able to move around, breathe freely. The story will be great.

And the days press on, weeks go by, and you’re still descending. Now, it’s not as much fun as those carefree days when you first stepped into the funnel. The light has diminished. Now you see the limitations of what you’ve undertaken. Problems creep in. Time wears on you. Didn’t you tell the editor you’d have this by the end of the month? Ooh, that’s coming closer. Still, you can stretch your arms, maybe not all the way, but the blood is still flowing.

And down you move. The sides of the funnel seem much closer now. You can’t quite turn around to see the sun anymore, though you still have light coming down over your shoulder. You have to lean a little closer to the page to read comfortably, but you expected that, didn’t you? Breathing is a bit more of an effort, and the air not as fresh as when you were back up there on the surface. And what day is it? Can I work weekends?

And as the space around your head gets smaller, your breathing shallows. Of course, it does; you don’t really have room to expand your lungs anymore. The characters are breathing more than they did before, too, so there’s less usable air. Plus, did you notice how they’re starting to get in your face now? The one you used to like, his dumb friend with the shaggy hair, that girl. You never realized before what a stinker she could be. But whatever, you said you loved them, thick and thin, and all that. It’s just that you’re all pressed up against one another and it’s dark and hot and you’re going to have to suck in all the air you can for the final push.

And there’s still more down to go. Uck, here there’s no movement at all. You can’t see the others now, but you feel them for sure, their hot breath on you. And you’re all but blinded by the dark and the heat, yet you know there must be an opening. All funnels have openings. My gosh, you’ve descended the entire length of the funnel, so there must be a way out! You can’t go back again anyway. A weight presses your head. You can’t really feel your legs anymore. You’ll have to pull yourself forward on your elbows. Yeah, yeah. You can do it. Sure you can . . . but what happened to the light? There is no light anymore. No air, either! So this is what it’s like to die. You gag. Suffocate. And you are suddenly so angry. You barely have anything anymore, but this sick hot anger.

And there is the eye of the funnel. That twinkle in the distance. My god, it’s small! Why would they ever design a funnel like this? With a top so broad and lively and the bottom no wider than the eye of a needle. Can you possibly crawl to it? Your elbows are bloody and have buckled now, so it’s all in the fingers, scraping your body inch by inch. You release your last breath, along with every living molecule of your body, to make yourself as small as possible. Scratch your way to it. Scratch, scratch . . .

And you are out.

You’re out. You gulp air as if you’ve just drowned, except that what you’ve just been through was worse than drowning. You died in there, didn’t you? Didn’t your heart actually stop? Didn’t your brain tremble and sigh and go still? But as your lun