A notebook for small corrections. These are observations from my own pots, still being revised at the kitchen sink.
I once made a mug with a lovely neat handle that pinched two fingers together. Now I try the loop against my hand before attaching it. I want a little daylight between my knuckle and the wall of the mug, even after the clay has shrunk.
The attachment matters as much as the shape. I slow down at both joins, support the wall from inside, and let the handle firm up before moving the mug. An extra five minutes here is better than discovering a crack after firing.
A bowl can look beautifully round and still feel sharp when I lift it from a cupboard. Before a piece gets too dry, I turn it slowly and soften the edge with a barely damp sponge. I check it with my eyes closed; my thumb catches the rough bit faster than I can see it.
I used to trust myself to remember which glaze went on which test. The pale green and the pale blue looked almost identical in my notes. Now I mark the underside of each tile and write the same mark in the notebook, beside the number of coats. Memory is welcome to take the evening off.