One of the more ridiculous of the auctorial insanities that I am prey to is not on tnh's infamous shirt.
It's homesickness. I get homesick for finished books. Not recently finished books--Jenny and all her friends are still cheerfully banished from my consciousness--but the book a book or two or ten ago. I'm homesick for The Stratford Man and the Edda of Burdens, which is a trilogy that may become a duology if I can convince myself not to trunk it. (The craft isn't up to my current standards, and never will be, because while I can go back and patch pretty nicely these days, it's not the same as getting it right the first time. You can tell. On the other hand, it 'does enough right,' which is to say, I think I fix it well enough to sell it, and there are things in there I deem worthy of being read, and a story that I think is probably on an emotional level the rawest thing I've written yet). This homesickness is why writers come back and write sequels after twenty years.
Now, every single one of these books, I couldn't wait to get out of when I was writing it.
Writers is nuts, man. Writers is nuts.
I'm a little homesick for Blood & Iron too. However, that homesickness is useful, because I have Whiskey & Water to write.
And now I will go to bed and sleep for many hours, and I will wake up rested and ready to write, for the urge is upon me, but the flesh is weak. And I don't have to get up at 4:10 tomorrow. I can sleep to seven, or eight. Or some other obscenely late hour.