Tracy Kidder

I first met Julie over the phone. I was, by then, pretty sure I wanted nothing to do with lecture agents. The ones I’d encountered seemed to have some of the same disabilities as publishing houses when it came to arranging travel: Obtaining middle seats for me on five-hour flights; misspelling my name on travel documents, which led to long conversations with airport security; once even booking me on a flight to the wrong destination. These agents were also discreet in the sense that they wouldn’t tell me what the total fee for my lecture was or how much of it they claimed as their own. They were very business-like. I mean, I got the feeling that they thought of me as an employee.

I think Julie called me initially. Another agent had fobbed me off on her, an agent who was actually quite transparent, in that she had told me she didn’t have room for a client of my mortal stature. This, I’m ashamed to say, hurt my feelings, because it reminded me of the many rejection slips that my youthful writings had elicited. Anyway, enough complaint. This voice on the phone – Julie’s voice – struck me as different, in all respects. She had a lecture lined up for me. This was what they offered to pay, and this was the percentage she’d like to take, if that seemed fair to me. I felt as if she was proposing a partnership. I think she’d even read some of what I’d written. She was a reader, she liked writing, and astonishingly enough, even liked many writers, though not all of course.

The money was good, her fee more than fair. Nothing went wrong on that first lecture trip, and nothing that could have been prevented went wrong on the many trips that followed. And when something did go wrong, I could almost always reach her, and she’d get the problem fixed. If she couldn’t, she’d stay on the phone, first commiserating with me, then distracting me with stories. I can’t describe her voice now, but I remember it distinctly, probably because I remember how it made me feel. I think its main quality was enthusiasm – for everyone and everything. If she disliked someone or something, she disliked them enthusiastically. She had a great capacity for enjoyment, in the deep sense of the word.

When I finally met her – I think it was in Portland – I was prepared to be disappointed. But no! She was even better in person – funny, comradely, interested. When I was in Portland, she would drive me to lectures. Once she drove me all the way to Seattle – Miriam was on board. The two of them told stories all the way there. From some of these, I learned, among other things, that there were writers who behaved much worse than I did. I remember especially Julie’s story about V.S. Naipaul, who once made her cry. It had to do with his luggage. She told the story so well that I had a fantasy afterward of paying the man an armed visit.

At my age, one starts to lose friends in bunches. Julie is one of those who stands out in the crowd for me. I miss her. I wish she were here.

— Tracy Kidder

(Pulitzer Prize-Winning author of Mountain Beyond Mountains, Strength in What Remains and Rough Sleepers)