I produce cinematic AI video. What ruins a sequence is almost never image quality; it is drift. The face, jacket, and light change between shots, so what should read as one scene becomes a gallery of near misses. Most people fight this by regenerating until something matches. I built the opposite: a set of chained Claude skills that locks a character once and never lets the model improvise again. The lesson that started it cost me 72 credits in one unusable shot. I fed a finished POV frame as an image reference to “set the world” for a motorcycle sequence. The model treated it as a strong identity reference, cloned the entire cockpit from that frame, and ignored the bike I was describing in the prompt. Image references are read as identity, not atmosphere. That misunderstanding is why most people’s characters mutate. Step-by-step: 1. I lock the character before generating anything. I fill nine layers in order: identity and facial structure, skin realism, wardrobe and materials, emotional energy, environment, lighting scheme, camera language, vertical 9:16 framing, and a fixed block of negative instructions. A generic prompt returns a generic face. This is direction, not a portrait. 2. I shoot a character sheet: a neutral, multi-view image of the locked character on white. That sheet—not a pretty hero frame—is what I reuse as a reference from then on. 3. I expand coverage instead of reinventing the scene. One locked scene becomes a full shot list with hero angles, macro inserts, and establishing shots. The subject, wardrobe, weather, and lighting never change between prompts. Only the camera, focal length, framing, and distance change. Every prompt restates the entire world from scratch because the generator has no memory between images. Consistency comes from redundancy, not from the model remembering. 4. I time the story before animating. I create a 3x3 board with nine beats over fifteen seconds, with each panel showing its timecode, shot title, and action. The rule is strict: the character, wardrobe, world, and light stay identical across all nine panels; only the story advances. The emotional scale rises toward panel nine. 5. I generate with reference discipline. I pass the object or vehicle in a clean exterior shot as the only image reference, then describe the world, framing, and interior in text, repeating that description word for word across shots. I chain consecutive shots by feeding the last frame of one as the start image of the next. The joins are invisible. 6. I review the board against the renders, keep the shots that hold, and regenerate only the ones that drift. The result is that I stopped paying the regeneration tax. Shots are budgeted, not gambled, and a fifteen-second sequence holds together because it was blocked like a real scene—with coverage and continuity—before a single frame existed. The nine-layer character build and the coverage framework are adapted from two AI video courses plus twenty years of production. I learned the reference discipline in step five the expensive way.

I built a custom news agent that skips the Google News and Apple News walled gardens. Eight prompts turn Claude into a personal news editor that reads my trusted RSS feeds, scores every story with a decision model, and delivers a clean daily page for about a dime a month. Each week, pulling two or three good stories for my newsletter digest meant searching multiple sites by hand—hours of clicking and scrolling for a handful of usable links. RSS feeds already deliver that content; the missing piece was a judgment layer that could separate worthwhile stories from noise without the cost or latency of running everything through a full LLM. I used Claude Cowork, Jev from TypeSafe AI, Vercel AI Gateway, RSS feeds, Python, and SQLite. Jev is a decision model rather than a chatbot: it returns a probability and confidence score instead of prose, does not hallucinate facts, and scores a story in a fraction of a second. That makes an automated daily judgment call inexpensive enough to run continuously. Step-by-step: 1. I set up a Claude project to hold the scripts, taste guide, database, and page. 2. I defined the goal and sections, then had Claude interview me to create a short “taste guide” describing what counts as a good story. 3. I found and live-tested the RSS feed for each trusted source instead of guessing feed URLs. 4. I fetched all working feeds into a deduplicated SQLite database and logged failures. 5. I used Jev through Vercel AI Gateway to score every story: first filtering ads and promotions, then ranking stories by section against my taste guide. 6. I selected the winners for each section, with Jev identifying near-duplicate stories so they would not appear twice. 7. I generated one-line summaries and fact-checked them against the source so nothing was invented. 8. I rendered a simple HTML page and scheduled the entire workflow to run every morning. A few details matter. I used Cowork rather than a plain chat because several steps require Claude to work with files, run code, and access the network. I also created a Vercel account and AI Gateway API key manually before the scoring step. Finally, I saved everything to the Claude project instead of a local folder, which allows the morning run to happen in the cloud on its own schedule. Scoring costs roughly $0.10 per month with Jev, compared with a few dollars for a full LLM doing the same job. The workflow turns a two-hour weekly slog into a page that is ready every morning, with each link going directly to the original publisher rather than a Google or Apple aggregator. Full build walkthrough: onabetternote.substack.com/p/build-your-own-news-agent-with-claude — the Substack post includes the exact eight prompts to copy and paste, plus more detail on why a model like Jev matters for cost containment as agents become routine.

I keep a long wishlist on Audible, but whenever I want a new audiobook, I face the same question: does my library already offer it for free through Libby? Checking hundreds of titles manually feels like too much work, so I often spend a credit instead. I had Claude build a workflow that checks for me. It reads my Audible wishlist and cross-references every title against my library’s Libby catalog, sorting each one into three categories: borrow now, join the waitlist, or not available. The important part was learning to interpret Libby accurately. Badges and time estimates can make an audiobook look ready when it isn’t, and a pending hold can look like an active one. The reliable signal is the exact text on the button: “Borrow” means I can borrow it; anything else means I should wait or move on. Step-by-step: 1. I gave Claude a workflow to read my Audible wishlist. 2. I had it cross-reference every title against my library’s Libby catalog. 3. I had it sort each title into “borrow now,” “join the waitlist,” or “not available.” 4. I configured the workflow to interpret availability using the exact button text rather than relying on badges or time estimates. 5. Before spending an Audible credit, I check whether Libby already has the audiobook ready.

I first create my own shortlist of cultural events and collect all the relevant links in a simple text document. Then I give the document to ChatGPT along with my planning criteria. The goal is not to have AI decide what I should attend. I have already chosen the events that interest me. The useful part is turning that scattered shortlist into a realistic yearly plan. ChatGPT checks the event and venue pages, gathers the practical information, and organises everything into a chronological overview divided by month. Under each month, it lists the selected events in date order, including the day, date, location or cultural venue, a short description, and relevant ticket prices. This is especially useful because pricing systems differ between venues. Discounts, subscriptions, social tariffs, and reduced rates may apply in completely different ways. ChatGPT can compare those structures and help me understand what each event would actually cost instead of relying on the headline ticket price. The second planning layer is logistics. For each event, I assess how realistic the trip is by public transport, including the journey there and, importantly, whether getting home after the event is still feasible. I also use separate scores for how strongly I want to attend an event and how easy or difficult the logistics are. This makes it much easier to compare several months at once and decide where my cultural budget and energy are best spent. If an event is too expensive or logistically awkward, ChatGPT can look for practical alternatives, such as another performance date, the same production at a closer venue, a cheaper option, or a similar event that fits the plan better. Step-by-step: 1. I create a personal shortlist of cultural events and collect the relevant links in a simple text document. 2. I give the document to ChatGPT together with my planning criteria. 3. I have ChatGPT check the event and venue pages and organise the selected events into a chronological, month-by-month overview. 4. I include each event’s day, date, location or cultural venue, short description, and relevant ticket prices. 5. I compare discounts, subscriptions, social tariffs, and reduced rates to estimate the actual cost of each event. 6. I assess the public-transport journey to and from each event, including whether getting home afterward is feasible. 7. I score each event separately for how strongly I want to attend it and how easy or difficult the logistics are. 8. I use those comparisons to decide where my cultural budget and energy are best spent. 9. For events that are too expensive or logistically awkward, I ask ChatGPT to identify alternatives such as another performance date, a closer venue, a cheaper option, or a similar event that fits the plan better. The result is a structured yearly planner built from my own cultural shortlist: chronological, budget-aware, and grounded in the realities of public transport.

Midlifecurious is a newsletter for women navigating midlife—honest, funny, and allergic to being talked down to. Its Sunday issue, the Midlife Missive, is a roundup covering health, wellness, money, beauty, and family. My sister, Claire, edits it; I build the machine behind it. That machine is Missive, a five-part publishing intelligence system that runs the newsletter as one closed loop: scan → triage → publish → measure → remember. It monitors Reddit, search trends, and RSS to identify what midlife women are paying attention to before those topics reach our feeds. Discovery pulls in those sources, ranks every feed using a click-rate-based quality score, and lets Claire triage articles into the week’s issue. Curation composes Sunday’s newsletter and drafts the introduction in her voice. Performance reads the Mailchimp results back into the system and feeds them into the rankings, so strong sources rise and weak ones fall over time. Underneath all four stages is Memory: a vector-searchable corpus of every article, save, rejection, and the reasoning behind each decision. Memory is the real spine of the system. It lets Missive ask editorial questions such as “Have we covered this before?” and “Is this source still earning its slot?” instead of requiring one person to hold everything in her head. We’re a two-person operation: I build with Claude Code, and Claire edits. The system runs on one database for under $25 a month. I built it because the alternative was Claire drowning in a Feedly-and-spreadsheet routine that discarded everything as soon as an issue shipped. We had no record of what we had run and no feedback on what actually landed. My bet is that the corpus is the moat. Claire’s editorial taste—every save, rejection, and “cornerstone” stamp, with the reasoning stored alongside the decision—is a training set no one else has. A system that remembers turns her job from synthesizer into judge. Missive is deliberately internal-only: no SaaS and no customers, ever. That frees me to build for our exact workflow instead of a hypothetical buyer, and to build for 2028 instead of this quarter. The near-term payoff is a calmer Sunday. The long-term goal is a proprietary editorial-intelligence layer we could never buy off the shelf—the foundation for the research and audience products that come next. Step-by-step: 1. I monitor Reddit, search trends, and RSS for topics that midlife women are paying attention to. 2. I pull those sources into Missive and rank each feed using a click-rate-based quality score. 3. Claire triages the ranked articles into the week’s Midlife Missive. 4. Missive composes Sunday’s newsletter and drafts the introduction in Claire’s voice. 5. I import the Mailchimp results so the system can update source rankings based on performance. 6. Missive stores every article, save, rejection, “cornerstone” stamp, and the reasoning behind each decision in a vector-searchable corpus. 7. We use that memory to check whether a topic has already been covered and whether a source is still earning its place. 8. I build and maintain the internal system with Claude Code, while Claire handles editing, using one database that costs under $25 a month.

I spent twenty years producing documentary and nonfiction films, all of it the expensive way: crews, schedules, financing, and commissioners saying no. I'm proud of much of that work, and I still think about the films that never got made because the money wasn't there. Generative video pulled me in, but not for the reason people assume. It wasn't the speed or the cost. It was the fact that I could finally finish something without asking anyone for permission. No green light from a major platform. Nobody deciding that a story was too small to deserve a crew. A year later, I could produce this way. It turned out to be a different job rather than the same job with new tools. Then I ran into a problem I hadn't considered: how do you show the work? A finished shot doesn't prove much anymore. A client can look at a beautiful frame and have no way to tell whether it took three weeks or three minutes. If I'm honest, neither would I in their position. The thing every portfolio is built to display had stopped being evidence. I'm not a developer. I produce films. The site is bilingual, has seven sections, includes a case study for each film, plays video on hover, and has a comparison slider that works with a thumb as well as a mouse. I built all of it. I'd wanted this exact site for about fifteen years and had never managed to explain it properly to anyone I paid to make it. This time, I stopped explaining and built it myself. The middle of the page has a slider that you drag between the storyboard panel and the final shot. A basic before-and-after would prove nothing; you can fake that by generating twice. The storyboard is the proof because the framing, eyeline, and decision about what stays outside the frame all existed on paper before any model was asked to generate anything. You drag the handle and watch the intention survive. The rest of the site came from the same place. Video only plays on hover and is silent until you click for sound. Most video portfolios are unreadable because fifteen things start moving at once. The sections are organized by register rather than by client: epic, brand, animation, and lifestyle. A wall of logos answers who has hired you, which nobody is actually wondering. What they want to know is whether you can change tone. Nothing is cropped to fit the grid. A 5:33 film sits in 16:9 next to a 2:42 film in scope, and the layout is lopsided because of it. I nearly made them uniform because it looked tidier, then realized I was about to reformat my own films so a webpage would look neat. Anyone who cuts for a living spots that immediately. Concepts are labeled as concepts. Experiments have their own section instead of being scattered among the client work and hoping nobody asks which is which. Step-by-step: 1. I started from what my client couldn't verify: the craft behind a shot. 2. I found the artifact that proves it. It's usually the ugly thing nobody publishes: the storyboard, the reference sheet, or the version before the good version. 3. I put that artifact next to the finished piece inside one interaction, so nobody has to search for the proof. 4. I made playback deliberate. Video plays on hover, and sound requires a click. 5. I sorted the work by the question being asked rather than by the credentials I wanted to lead with. 6. I didn't reformat the work to fit the layout. I let the grid be uneven. 7. I labeled everything honestly: client, concept, or experiment. One word each can pay for the credibility of the whole page. 8. I wrote a brief for each section as a document first. Arguing with a paragraph is free; arguing with a built page is not. 9. I built the site with an AI coding tool. This was the least interesting step, even though it's the one everyone writes about. If your work can be mistaken for a lucky prompt, stop trying to prove it with the finished piece. The site is at www.termopilas.tv if you want to drag the handle yourself.

I built a playful GPT workflow called Prosperity Oracle, inspired by the astrology and mystical magazine columns I loved in the 1990s. It is deliberately not financial advice, forecasting, or decision support. It is a small ritual of fun: part horoscope, part creative prompt, and part retro-internet weirdness. Instead of asking GPT to optimize something useful, I wanted to recreate the slightly magical feeling of opening a magazine and finding a mysterious prediction written just for me. Sometimes AI does not need to increase productivity. Sometimes it can simply make the day a little stranger and more delightful—and, on some days, inspire my artwork. Step-by-step: 1. I drew inspiration from the astrology and mystical magazine columns I loved in the 1990s. 2. I built Prosperity Oracle as a playful GPT workflow that produces a horoscope-style experience. 3. I framed it as a ritual of fun, creative prompting, and retro-internet weirdness—not as financial advice, forecasting, or decision support. 4. I used the format to recreate the feeling of discovering a mysterious prediction written just for me. 5. I let the results serve as creative inspiration for my artwork.

I built a workflow that converts landscape (16:9) footage into vertical (9:16) video without heavily cropping the original footage. Using AI tools and a simple node tree in Magnific, I generated the missing visual data outside the original frame so the final video looks as if it was captured vertically. Previously, this felt like too much trouble and too many steps to be worthwhile. Using Magnific Spaces, I extended the first frame of the video to fit a 9:16 frame with one prompt. Then I used a second prompt with the new frame and the original video as references in a video-generation node. I used Seedance 2.0 to save credits because I had low expectations that the workflow would work. To my surprise, the output was great immediately. It was not perfect, but the generated footage matched the original clip very well. Below are images of my node tree. Step-by-step: 1. I opened the original landscape (16:9) video in Magnific. 2. I used one prompt to extend the video's first frame into a 9:16 vertical frame. 3. I added the new frame and the original video as references in a video-generation node. 4. I used a second prompt to generate the expanded vertical footage with Seedance 2.0. 5. I reviewed the output and found that it matched the original clip well, although it was not perfect.

I develop the song with ChatGPT, working through the lyrics, structure, mood, and sound tags. I then move the concept into Suno, which generates the music. Once the track is finished, my ChatGPT agent handles the download and archiving workflow where site authentication allows it. ChatGPT also creates the visual artwork. I assemble the finished song and image into a full video and a Short in Clipchamp. From there, I publish the content to YouTube and TikTok, then share the release across Facebook, LinkedIn, and X. What makes this workflow interesting is not any single AI tool, but the handoff between them: writing, music generation, file handling, image creation, video assembly, publishing, and distribution—all directed by one human creative process. The result is a practical, end-to-end AI-assisted production pipeline rather than a single AI-generated output. Step-by-step: 1. I work with ChatGPT to develop the lyrics, structure, mood, and sound tags. 2. I move the concept into Suno to generate the music. 3. Once the track is finished, my ChatGPT agent downloads and archives it where site authentication allows. 4. I use ChatGPT to create the visual artwork. 5. I combine the finished song and image in Clipchamp to create a full video and a Short. 6. I publish the finished content to YouTube and TikTok. 7. I share the release across Facebook, LinkedIn, and X.

When I’m continuing a book series or a show season and have forgotten key plot points—especially in fictional stories with large casts—I use NotebookLM to research a spoiler-free refresher before starting the new season or latest book. I used this approach with the new *Murderbot* series and the latest science-fiction book by James S. A. Corey, who wrote *The Expanse* and the *Leviathan Wakes* series. After loading the sources, I ask NotebookLM to create a slide deck with illustrations of the key characters, their relationships, and a quick dossier for each one. This gives me a visual anchor for the characters and earlier plot lines without revealing future events. I also want a hero image designed as a slide, cover, or thumbnail to promote this workflow. It should use and represent the NotebookLM logo and the logos of any other relevant tools, track down their current branding where possible, and turn these .dcs into HTML slide decks.

Spotify can tell me what I played, but it rarely explains what music does in my life. I use exported listening data, playlists, and personal context to explore taste, memory, regulation, identity, and continuity. I look at both observable listening behavior and the meanings I attach to it, without forcing every track into a biography. Step-by-step: 1. Start with the data. I export streaming history, tracks, artists, timestamps, listening duration, saved songs, and playlists where available. I check the period covered and remember that missing history does not mean a song never mattered. I start with behavior: a supposed favorite may barely appear, while another track may have played hundreds of times quietly. 2. Separate tracks from artists. I count unique tracks, unique artists, and tracks per artist. One artist with dozens of songs and hundreds of artists represented by one track suggest different listening styles: exploring discographies versus collecting exceptional songs. 3. Find lasting favorites. I distinguish temporary high-volume artists from favorites that return across years, playlists, and life phases. I look for persistent songs: tracks spanning years, returning after long gaps, or appearing in several playlists. Persistence can matter more than total plays. Some songs never win a monthly ranking yet refuse to disappear. 4. Connect music to life. I add relevant personal context, such as teenage years, university, a move, a relationship, or rebuilding. I ask which songs became landmarks and which were described as “my song.” Dates show when music appeared; I explain what that timing means instead of forcing every track into a biography. 5. Discover playlist functions. Repeated songs are not always favorites. Sometimes music has a job: providing strength, calm, concentration, singing, emotional release, or a way to reconnect with myself. I read playlist names alongside their tracks and listening patterns. “Power” might mean, “I do not feel strong, so I need external strength.” “Gold” might mean, “I want to feel my own golden heart again.” These meanings matter more than a generic genre label. 6. Treat corrections as evidence. AI suggests interpretations, but I decide whether they fit. For example: “This song is not nostalgic. It reminds me that I remain myself regardless of what another person does.” Corrections like this can change the meaning of an entire playlist, so I keep them alongside the data. 7. Look for regulation patterns. I find songs played daily for weeks, tracks repeated within one day, and playlists used at consistent times. I ask whether they accompany difficult tasks, low energy, singing, or calming down. Repetition is a clue, not proof of an emotional function. 8. Look beyond genre. Pop, rock, electronic music, mantra, and soundtracks can share dramatic builds, layered vocals, melodic hooks, powerful voices, intimate production, or mantra-like repetition. These qualities can explain why apparently unrelated songs belong together. I let myself name the patterns; “Post-Classical Electroacoustic Intimate Futurism” may be more useful for discovery than a standard genre. 9. Separate nostalgia from continuity. An old song returning is not necessarily nostalgia. I ask whether it is remembered or still actively used. Some music belongs to the past, while some music simply has a very long present. I keep different musical worlds separate: anthemic pop and meditative mantra may serve different parts of the same person. 10. Build a traceable profile. I include core artists, persistent songs, personal anthems, life-phase associations, functional playlists, regulation patterns, musical qualities, and unexpected findings. I link interpretations to dates, play counts, playlist appearances, and my explanations. I separate observed behavior, AI hypotheses, and confirmed meanings, and keep the profile easy to correct. 11. Recommend for the person. Instead of asking for “songs similar to Coldplay,” I ask: “Find the emotional build I like in Coldplay, the vocal force I like in Sia, and the intimate electronic texture in my meditation playlists.” I can also ask: “Find tracks for Power that could survive repeated listening without copying its existing artists.” 12. Update over time. I add new data and look for new favorites, returning anchors, changing playlist functions, and stable patterns. The ongoing cycle is: export → analyse → find persistent songs → map functions → add personal context and corrections → build the profile → recommend → update. Listening history records what I played. AI helps me explore why something kept returning. I remain the only person who can finally say: “Yes. That is what this song means to me.”

I’m retired and in my early 70s. I never got into RPGs growing up, but I decided to try a tabletop RPG with my wife. The game I purchased included a rulebook and a PDF of the book. I wanted my wife and me to play as the player characters without either of us having to be the game master, so I tested whether AI could take on that role. I used ChatGPT to parse the PDF and walk us through the process. It helped us create our characters, Heisenberg and Felicity, and then started the game as the game master. We’ve only just started, but it seems like this is going to work well. The AI can keep secrets to itself, roll the dice when needed, and guide us through the adventure. Step-by-step: 1. I purchased a tabletop RPG that included a rulebook and a PDF of the book. 2. I used ChatGPT to parse the PDF and walk us through the process. 3. ChatGPT helped my wife and me create our player characters, Heisenberg and Felicity. 4. We had ChatGPT start the game as the game master so neither of us had to fill that role. 5. We began playing while ChatGPT kept secrets to itself, rolled the dice when needed, and guided us through the adventure.

My first media job was as a fact-checker at a major magazine. Those jobs have already mostly vanished before AI arrived, but now I use ChatGPT 5.4 Thinking as a last-pass fact-checker on my newsletters before I hit send. I'll ask it to identify inconsistencies, isolate the assertions that most need verification, and check key numbers, quotes, and factual claims against original or primary sources. In other words, it does not replace reporting, but it is remarkably good at stress-testing a draft before publication — essentially fact-checking my fact-checking. Step-by-step: 1. I pasted the nearly finished newsletter draft into ChatGPT 5.4 Thinking. 2. I asked it to identify inconsistencies and isolate the assertions most in need of verification. 3. I had it check key numbers, quotes, and factual claims against original or primary sources. 4. I reviewed the proposed corrections and followed the source trail rather than accepting changes blindly. 5. I used the result as a final stress test of my own reporting and fact-checking before publishing.

I built a personalized news workflow called “TastyHookedFish” as an antidote to the feeling that news is limited to crisis, conflict, and collapse. It periodically searches for genuinely interesting, positive developments across science, climate, medicine, conservation, technology, culture, and social progress. The goal is not to create a feed of cheerful fluff, but to surface meaningful developments that provide evidence that useful things are happening in the world. The workflow also tries to avoid repetition, so the same feel-good stories do not keep resurfacing simply because they are popular. The result is a personalized news feed that does not ignore reality, but deliberately widens the lens. Step-by-step: 1. I set up a personalized news workflow called “TastyHookedFish.” 2. I configured it to periodically search for positive developments across science, climate, medicine, conservation, technology, culture, and social progress. 3. I focused the workflow on meaningful developments rather than generic cheerful stories. 4. I added a way to avoid repeatedly surfacing the same feel-good stories because they are popular. 5. I use the resulting feed to stay informed while deliberately widening my view of what is happening in the world.

An artist portfolio can feel harder to make than the work itself. My work lives across years, folders, and materials: photographs, drawings, collage, objects, costumes, and digital experiments. Then an application asks me to explain who I am, what I make, and where I want to go. I used AI to help assemble a readable portfolio for HUP03, a Kunstwerkt call. The portfolio included eight works spanning photography, collage, assemblage, performance, and AI-assisted illustration. The goal was to organise the material without flattening it into a generic artist statement. Step-by-step: 1. I started with the actual work: images, titles, dates, and any explanations I already had. For each piece, I established the title, year, medium, whether it was a standalone work or part of a series, what prompted it, how it was made, and which details mattered. I gave AI concrete material rather than asking it to invent my practice. 2. I described each piece in my own words, as I would to someone looking at it beside me. One of my works, *Olifant onder het tapijt*, combined three expressions: the elephant in the room, the elephant in a china shop, and sweeping things under the carpet. The setting became a recognisably Flemish grandmother’s living room, with floral wallpaper, a crucifix, and a decorative cow painting. Those details carry the humour and the observation about hiding uncomfortable things. “An exploration of concealment” would lose much of what makes the piece mine. I asked AI to organise my explanation while preserving its specific ingredients. 3. I gave each work a clear, consistent entry with the title, year, and medium; a short description of the idea; and the relevant visual or material choices. Consistency makes varied work easier to read, even though a photograph, costume, and assemblage may need different explanations. Where relevant, I stated AI involvement clearly, such as “digital illustration developed in collaboration with generative AI.” 4. I selected work for range and relevance. My selection included an older photograph, a costume/performance, collage, recent assemblages, and digital work. I asked what each piece contributed: another method, question, period, or way of seeing. I avoided choosing only the newest work or forcing everything into one visual style. The task was to make the selection understandable. 5. I separated the existing artwork from the proposed project. Existing works show what I have made, while a project proposal explains what I want to investigate next. For this application, my project question centred on human connection: a thread becoming a web, then a garden. AI helped articulate that direction without forcing every earlier piece into the same project. I looked for connections I recognised while leaving room for differences and discoveries. 6. I wrote an accurate artist introduction describing the media I use, what interests me, and my current practice. I checked every biographical claim and distinguished courses attended, qualifications completed, and current activities. In my case, wording around an interior design course needed care so it would not imply that I had completed the programme. AI can make a biography sound polished while quietly making it less true, so I read the facts as closely as the prose. 7. I treated the first draft as material to revise. Useful feedback included: “That sounds more formal than I mean,” “This detail is essential,” “You have made the idea too abstract,” “That suggests a qualification I do not have,” and “This is my observation, not a universal claim.” AI revised the structure and wording, but I decided whether the text still belonged to the work. 8. I checked the portfolio as a whole against the application requirements. I reviewed titles, dates, media, image-text matches, requested sections, and length limits. I removed repetition between the artwork descriptions, biography, and proposal. Someone unfamiliar with me should be able to understand the work without needing the conversation behind the portfolio. The overall process was: gather existing work, explain each piece, verify the facts, build consistent entries, select a meaningful range, describe the proposed direction, revise in my own voice, and check the application. AI was useful as an interviewer, organiser, and editor. The substance came from the work and the person who made it. A portfolio does not need to turn a varied practice into one tidy slogan; it needs to give someone a way into it.

I built a repeatable, human-directed AI workflow for turning an original emotion, memory, or story into a finished WazWorld song, complete with cover artwork and release content. It addresses one of the biggest problems with AI music: a simple prompt can produce something technically impressive but generic, overproduced, or disconnected from the creator’s real intention. The workflow begins with a human trigger—an experience, relationship, place, mood, or musical idea that I genuinely want to express. WazWorld generally moves between dark alternative/electronic music and California coastal country-rock. Step-by-step: 1. I create a detailed artistic brief describing the song’s emotional core, story, genre, energy, vocal character, instrumentation, arrangement, dynamics, and intended listener experience. 2. I work with ChatGPT to develop and challenge the concept, write and rewrite lyrics, remove clichés, and design the full arrangement. This includes the intro, verses, choruses, instrumental passages, transitions, musical peaks, and outro. ChatGPT also helps translate my direction into precise production language and exclusions that Suno can understand. 3. I generate versions in Suno, treating each result as a demo rather than a finished song. I evaluate the vocal delivery, lyrics, bass, guitars, synths, drums, tempo, arrangement, and emotional impact. Then I make targeted prompt changes and generate new versions. A song may go through dozens of iterations before it sounds the way I originally heard it in my head. 4. After selecting the final music, I use ChatGPT and AI image generation to develop cover artwork that matches the song’s emotional identity. I adapt the artwork for streaming, YouTube, Instagram, Stories, and Shorts, then create the metadata, descriptions, captions, and promotional material needed for release. 5. I distribute the finished music through services such as DistroKid and publish it across streaming and social platforms. The final result is not a one-click AI song. AI provides creative and production tools, but I direct every major decision—from the original emotion and lyrics to the arrangement, instrumentation, vocals, artwork, and release strategy. Someone can recreate this workflow by starting with a clear human idea, documenting the desired sound, generating multiple versions, evaluating each one like a producer, and iterating until the finished work communicates the original intention.

I built a workflow called PeopleSparkles for researching people connected to creative fields, schools, collectives, residencies, local art scenes, and cultural networks. The workflow starts from a defined group of people, for example teachers, alumni, artists, current or former members of an association, residents, or associates connected to a specific academy, organization, or cultural scene. A typical research request can be as simple as: “Look at this art website and identify all current and former residents and associates. Build a list. Then research them in batches of ten, checking their websites and other relevant sources, and write a short description of their work. Deliver the results in a format that can be imported into my local database.” Before each new research run, I provide GPT with a ZIP containing the current state of the PeopleSparkles database. This means the research starts from the existing corpus rather than from scratch. New people can be added, existing entries can be expanded, and previously researched people can be recognized before new material is prepared for import. The actual database lives locally on my computer. Apart from the initial development of the code and the research needed to create new lists of people, the database itself runs locally. Once a new batch has been researched and imported, browsing, organizing, scoring, annotating, and using the material does not require the whole corpus to be sent back for analysis. The database also generates a human-readable HTML version with a designed layout, so the research is not trapped inside raw data or spreadsheets. I can browse the people and their notes visually as a small personal research publication, while the underlying structured data remains available for future additions and processing. The “Sparkles” part is personal. I can add my own notes and scores to each person to capture whether their work sparked something in me, and if so, how. That might be curiosity, recognition, inspiration, aesthetic attraction, a strong question, a surprising association, or simply the desire to look again. This means the database does not only record who someone is and what they make. It also records my evolving relationship to their work. Over time, that creates a second layer on top of the research corpus: not just a map of creative people, but a map of resonance. The database also includes a “Surprise me” function that brings up a person from the collection without me choosing them deliberately. This helps break habitual search patterns and allows older, less obvious, or previously overlooked entries to resurface. Someone I barely noticed months ago can suddenly become relevant in a completely different creative context. The purpose is not to create conventional biographies. I am interested in the sparks around a person: what they make, the media and themes they work with, the organizations or people they connect to, and which traces may lead somewhere unexpected. This is particularly useful for creative ecosystems where information is fragmented across artist websites, academy pages, exhibition archives, old posters, association websites, interviews, catalogues, and small cultural organizations. The workflow gathers those fragments into a cumulative research corpus. It also allows the research to grow organically. One artist may lead to a collective, a teacher to a former student, an exhibition to another maker, or an old membership list to someone whose work would never have appeared in a conventional search. In simple terms: existing local database → new source or people list → GPT-assisted discovery and research in batches → import-ready structured data → local database → HTML browsing, notes and scores → surprise rediscovery → new creative connections The result is a living creative research database that combines external research with personal resonance, so I can not only discover people, but also trace which work actually sparks something in me over time.

Ten days ago, I posted about keeping a `HANDOFF.md` so an AI film project doesn't lose the decisions it has already made. This is the other half, and it turned out to be the expensive one: the decisions that haven't been made yet. Credit where it belongs: Tony Ojeda posted a spec-generator agent that sits between an idea and implementation. The rule I borrowed is his: the agent inspects what already exists before proposing anything. I applied it to film production instead of code. I pointed an agent at my production documents for a short film I hadn't started generating and asked it to identify what was still undecided, what each item affected, and what would break if it were decided late. It came back with ten open decisions. One of them was worth the whole exercise. My environment description is locked verbatim across all 40 shots so the world stays identical. The film is called *The Thaw*. Whether the ice visibly melts during the film is written down nowhere. If I decide that in week three, all 40 keyframes get regenerated at once. I would have found out around shot 12. The counterintuitive part is who writes the list: not me. Asking the person who already has the whole film in their head what's missing gets you very little, because they have all of it—and that's exactly why they can't see the hole. The list has to come from something that only knows what's written down. Step-by-step: 1. I put the open questions in section 0 of the handoff, above everything else, so it's the first thing read and the first thing emptied. 2. I have the agent write that list, not me. It reads every existing document for the project and returns only what it cannot know from them. 3. I have it return three things for each item: what's undecided, which shots it affects, and what breaks if it's decided late. The third column sets the priority. 4. I have it sort by what costs the most to change afterward, not by what's easiest to answer. 5. I keep one hard rule: while an open question affects a shot, that shot doesn't get generated. The question gets decided, or deferred in writing with the cost of being wrong stated. 6. Every answered item leaves section 0 through one of two doors: into the closed canon or into the rejected list. Nothing is simply deleted. 7. I ask specifically about the things that go missing every time: the rule of the world; the physical scale of anything impossible, such as whether the character can touch or climb it; any object appearing in more than one shot; screen direction; how it ends; who speaks and in what voice; and the delivery format. 8. When it finds nothing real, it says so. A list padded to look thorough is worse than an empty one. The version I'd used for a year ran at the end of a session and recorded what got decided. Running it at the start, focused on what hasn't been decided, is the same document pointed the other way—and it's the direction that saves money.

For a recent video, I needed to animate a visual representation of this ancient board game. Doing that manually in After Effects would've taken a few hours, so instead I described the rules of the game to Claude and asked it to generate an interactive SVG animation. After a few rounds of tweaking, I was able to screen-record the result, and it worked great for the video. Step-by-step: 1. I described the ancient board game’s rules and the visual sequence the audience needed to understand. 2. I asked Claude to generate an interactive SVG animation that demonstrated the game. 3. I reviewed the first version and gave feedback on the motion and clarity. 4. I repeated the prompt-and-tweak loop until the sequence worked for the video. 5. I screen-recorded the finished SVG animation and used the recording in the edit.

Sometimes a story needs a simple locator map to show where something happened or where something can be found—such as a business facility, a car accident, or the best place to see a sunset. I've worked in media for a long time and understand the power of maps to tell stories. But media cost-cutting and consolidation have reduced the number of available graphic departments, so creating a map is often the last task a reporter or editor wants to take on. I used Perplexity for initial research, Claude Code and Codex to build a web app, and Perplexity and ChatGPT for post-work such as SEO best practices. Step-by-step: 1. I used Perplexity's Deep Research mode to conduct a competitive market analysis. I asked it to analyze the field I was considering entering, identify competitors and growth rates, and explicitly break out feature sets. 2. I revised the research with my own idea and asked Perplexity to run the competitive landscape against it. I also provided desired outcomes, including intended audiences and where competitors were reaching them. I added the constraint, "Do it without syncophancy," so it would stop telling me how good my potential product was. 3. I hand-drew the initial screens and functions I wanted, then used the `/office-hours` skill in the Gstack bundle, available on GitHub, to play devil's advocate, sharpen the ideas, and challenge my assumptions. 4. I wrote a long prompt describing the product, starting broadly with the concept and audience and then narrowing to specific features and benefits. For example, I specified that it should export in 16:9 and 9:16 formats so maps would be ready for mobile vertical presentation. 5. I specified the hosting environment and that the product should be a web app. I also required a planning phase followed by construction phases. I pasted the prompt into Claude Code with this final line: "Use /grill-me to ask me questions to clarify intent." After 147 questions, it started the build. 6. This was in the pre-Fable days, so I specified that Opus 4.8 should act as an orchestrator while less expensive agents, particularly in Codex, handled the actual coding. 7. I used separate phases for technical work such as wiring in mapping providers and getting the UX to work correctly. Other phases included wiring in payment and subscriptions and making sure a subscription triggered an email campaign with instructions. 8. I dedicated an entire phase to building admin tools so I could manage the marketing language on the landing page and publish blog entries. 9. After each phase, I had the Opus/Codex combination perform an adversarial code-review-and-fix cycle. I then ran the `/ai-regression-testing` skill from the ECC repository on GitHub to catch issues the code review missed. 10. After every third phase, I prompted Claude Code: "Act as a senior QA engineer and go through the entire codebase looking for inconsistencies, functions that are in the wrong place, code that is overkill and security vulnerabilities." 11. When I had a product I thought was ready for testing, I prompted Claude Code, again using the Opus/Codex combination: "Act as a senior security engineer. Run this against OWASP standards. Find problems and suggest fixes. Harden this product overall." 12. As I neared the end, I asked Perplexity Deep Research and ChatGPT (Sol/High) to find SEO solutions for the product.