Keep fighting the good fight Jodi.This must be a very slow news week because the NYTpicker spotlighted a tweet by Jodi Picoult and then took her to the literary woodshed for a bloggy beatdown.

Apparently, in Jodi’s 140-character quote, she commented on how the New York Times tends to slobber all over white, male authors, particularly those residing within the boroughs of New York City. (Okay, so I’m paraphrasing a teensy bit).

Honestly, I don’t know if Jodi is spot-on or hurling aspersions from the cheap-seats. I guess I’m just too busy to pay that much attention to the New York Times Book Review. Except for that time they were going to review me, then pulled out when they saw my first name and their literary bus jumped the guardrail and plummeted into the abyss of androgyny.

Despite answering trivia questions about college football and Bud Light commercials, they remained unconvinced of my gender and review worthiness. I even faxed them my birth certificate—clearly evidence that I was indeed male and worthy of their time, but in a form reply they stated that the mere effeminate nature of my name offended them and thereby voided any chance of a glowing review.

And that, true believers, was that.

As I sit here in my comfy, yet squeaky office chair, lazy golden retriever at my feet, I’m tapping away at a MacBook Pro. It’s elegant, yet plastic. It’s what works for me. But I’m sooooo tempted to find an app that replicates the sounds of a manual typewriter—you know, the chickty-chik of old-school keys striking a sheaf of bond, and the satisfying ding of a carriage return. There’s just something comforting about the analog nature of a real typewriter (that and the sounds would alert my lovely wife that I’m actually working and not simply surfing the web).

I’ve even been tempted to cruise my local thrift stores in search of a manual, doorstop of an IBM—just so I can “Get my writer on, old-school.”

These crazy thoughts cross my mind because Harlan Ellison still writes on a manual typewriter. (In the documentary, Dreams with Sharp Teeth, a cackling Robin Williams refers to Harlan’s cache of hard-to-come-by Olympias as an ammunition dump).

Or maybe I should just savor these amazing sculptures by Jeremy Mayer, who creates them entirely out of salvaged typewriters.

Typewriters? Could you—would you?

As long as people keep asking questions, I'll keep making up answers. (The truth is in there somewhere). Here's a recent interview hosted by fellow author, Janet Skeslien Charles, who splits her time between Paris and the rural reaches of Montana.

Reaching the summit cap, in once piece.Eric, wondering if he paid his life insurance premium.An abandoned fire watchtower, soon to be a Starbucks.I love book travel—it’s one of the perks of the job, I suppose. But I cherish my days away from the keyboard, which in the summertime are all too scarce. Luckily I have good friends to drag my authorly butt outside once in a while.

This weekend was Divide Mountain, near Glacier National Park. Not a big mountain as far as mountains go (only 8,600 feet) but a phenomenal hike, especially considering we did it in pea-soup fog, only to have the mist burn off after we reached the summit. The views, needless to say, were breathtaking.

Three weeks ago we climbed Patrol Mountain on the Rocky Mountain Front. The guidebook said it was seven miles. Turned out to be twelve. You say po-tay-toe, I say po-tah-toe…

Photos courtesy of Eric Heidle.