I am very good at compartmentalizing.  I put things in boxes and baskets all over my house, corralling, herding, filing until there is enough order for me to move on.  Those containers are real but there are virtual ones, too.  My mother’s death is in a box, as is her life.  My father’s ongoing health dramas are packed into a larger box these days.  Looking for a ‘forever house’ is in a box marked “I’ve really got to get on that.”  London is in a crate marked “Home.”  My sons each have a box labeled “College” and my daughter has one currently called “Who the hell is this kid?”  Finally, my writing has its own box and I take it out each day.  I try to determine what story I will tell and how I’ll tell it.  Sometimes I try to remember what I thought I was doing when I started writing at all.