I have a photograph of a lovely long wooden table which I look at sometimes, imagining the stories I would like to write, sitting there, while sunlight filters gently through the trees outside to warm me.
I have libraries of music and imagery to set my mood.
I dream all the time about what I want to write, the impression I want to create, the covers of books I want to publish.
And then I sit down and write what I can actually write. Because nothing matters except the doing it.