Jack Cavanaugh

I remember 1966 with fondness. Summer in particular. I was fourteen years old and had sprained my ankle playing basketball. A bad sprain. Bad enough that the doctor told me I had to stay on the couch for at least a week. Get real. I was fourteen. In the prime of my life (or so I thought). School was out. Friends were packing up and heading to the beach. What was I going to do for an entire week consigned to sofa solitary? Turns out, that sprained ankle was one of the best things that ever happened to me. I spent that summer on Mars. You probably want an explanation. A friend loaned me his copies of Edgar Rice Burroughs’ Martian Chronicles. And when John Carter fell asleep in that Arizona cave and woke up on Mars, I went with him. O, what adventures we had! And that was just the beginning. Long after the ankle healed, the adventures continued. One new world after another opened up to me through page portals. I met characters I grew to love, characters with values and standards I want to emulate in my life. Now, having read hundreds of novels, the veil that separates this world and worlds of fiction is but a mist, and at times I find it difficult separating my thoughts with those of my fictional friends. When I read about Don Quixote and his life a quest (Don Quixote, Miguel de Cervantes), I want to believe in something so outrageously good that others will believe too; When I read about King Arthur and the knights of the Round Table (Once and Future King, T.H. White), I want to inspire people to pledge their lives to doing right; When I read about Jake Brigance delivering that closing argument to the jury in Clanton, Mississippi (A Time to Kill, John Grisham), I want to craft a speech that will stir men’s souls and fill their hearts with compassion. And when you find something you love doing, you want to do it for the rest of your life, don’t you? So I started writing. I worked during the day to make a living, and at night I’d read books about the craft of telling stories. And I wrote. I wrote stories from my heart. I collected and compiled them. An impressive stack of papers. And as I reviewed the product of my heart and pen, I found that my stories were . . . . bad. So bad. But after each failure, I tried again until I thought they were pretty good. That’s when the publishers started rejecting me. For 13 years they rejected me. But being Irish stubborn, I kept at it. Why? I wasn’t very good at kissing when I first fell in love, but that didn’t stop me from smooching, did it? And finally, a publisher liked what I’d written and offered me a contract. That was 1993. And I’ve been writing stories for a living ever since. Are my stories any good? Some literary groups thinks so, both secular and religious, because they’ve given me awards. And from the letters and emails I’ve received, some readers think so. But I guess you’ll have to make up your own mind, won’t you? As for the sprained ankle that started it all? I sprained it again during Spring Break in 1971. Same way. Basketball. Read happily on the sofa for a week. And now that I’m older, the ankle aches every time the weather changes. But I don’t mind. I use it as an excuse to stretch out on the sofa and go on another adventure. AWARDS * Silver Medallion Award (1995), Christian Booksellers Association * Christy Award (2002, 2003), Excellence in Christian Fiction * Silver Angel Award (2002), Excellence in Media * Gold Medal, Best Historical (2001), ForeWord Magazine * Best Historical Novel (1994), San Diego Literary Society * Best Novel (1995, 1996, 2005), San Diego Christian Writers Guild