Writing fiction makes me feel like an evil chessmaster, sitting in the dark. On publishing day I reveal my plots and stratagems, and either conquer the world (or a few readers) or die trying.
Also, just finished a reread of the Return of the King, capping my reread of Tolkien’s big 4. It’s better than I remember. The parts I remember disliking (trouble in the Shire, slow ending, etc.) are actually fitting. The general mood, one of a world fading, I still passionately disagree with, but the book itself is better than I recalled.