Good Piece. I'm 47, and been writing, professionally and for fun, since I can't remember. At some point, I stopped caring what others think. Not just about my writing, but about anything I do. I work part-time on a farm in France. My colleague, Francois, can't understand why I write. He thinks I should be working in the fields. Like him. I've known him three years, and he still doesn't get it. He probably never will. He's jealous, is my only explanation.