Every muse at this desk has a power sheet: one page that records the exact six-part description that produced her, the model and size of her best frames, and the light recipe of her room. It takes ninety seconds to fill in after a keeper frame. It saves hours across a series.
What goes on the sheet
Her description, word for word — not a summary, the actual prompt text. The aspect ratio and model of the frames that worked. The two or three variations that failed, with one line each about why. And the finishing notes: which frames went to the editor, which went to the press, in what order.
Why word for word matters
Paraphrase drifts. “Wine-red robe” becomes “red robe” becomes “silk dress”, and three sessions later the series has quietly recast its lead. The sheet freezes the wording the way the dynamo’s plate freezes its wiring diagram: unglamorous, exact, and the reason the machine produces the same current every time you crank it.
The two-minute habit
Fill the sheet while the frame is still on screen. Log the failures too — a series is steered as much by what it refuses as by what it keeps. When a session starts, open the sheet before the generator. The desk’s whole consistency system is that sentence.