In some of my preferred historical periods, my process might be considered eccentric at best, a ticket to Bedlam at worst. Normally when I talk about starting a new project, I'll prepare a compostion book with a collaged cover and attatched bookmark, and all notes go right in there, nice and easy. For work on a Georgian-set book, for example, I'll collect decorative papers by Anna Griffin to alter, distress or combine with images culled from other sources. StockXChng is a good place to start browsing for stock images of everything from people (I prefer closeups of hands, eyes, etc -- easier not to be distracted by modern clothing or props) to gardens, buildings, and miscellaneous items. There's even a menu that allows searching for images by mood. If you get the Rhapsody romance book club, the newsletters are great for images. Spread out on the floor and combine in different ways until it feels right.
If I start in a different sort of notebook (as with this project, where I started with a legal pad -- but an Anna Griffin legal pad -- flowers and paisley) then if I fill that one, I need to pick up a new one that is the same. Or close enough. It has to feel right in my hands, beneath my fingertips, and be up to getting toted around in my purse. I will become crochety if I run out, hence my now working on the matching shopping list paper that came with the fancy legal pad. I am like my historical heroines. I will make do with what I have while fighting for what I want. They had to get it from somewhere.
There's music, of course. I think a monster sprang to life when I acquired my first mp3 player. Though the entertainment factor of me trying to figure out new hardware was quite amusing for my family (I'm a scream at the offending bunch of circuits type person) the absolute joy of having Sting snuggle up to Mary Chapin Carpenter (there's an image) backed up by Meat Loaf, Eva Cassidy and Great Big Sea, all somehow mingling to whisk me back to Tudor era Scotland, Cromwell's England (he'd object, I know, but I didn't ask him) or the eighteenth century Carribbean somewhow feels right.
I'm well aware that some of the clerks in my favorite candle stores probably watch me funny when I come in and sniff things for very long periods of time, but it's important. Where else can the average modern woman find out exactly what the combination of woodsmoke, red wine and sea air can do to the senses? Leather, roses and fresh cotton? Fresh peaches and lilacs, but it's in the middle of December? Sometimes we need to know these things.
We all have peculiarities in our processes, things that those on the outside might not think go together in the general scheme of things. How on earth could we be looking right at something very modern, very straightforward and instantly be transported centuries and half a world away? I like to call it writervision. If they have to ask, they won't understand. They don't have to; for some, books are like laws and sausages. They're glad to have them, but don't really want to see how they're made.
What parts of your process make perfect sense to you but not everyone else?