One day I decided to Google a book I wrote, Right Hand Man.  I found a Goodreads page where my book was posted, along with nineteen other books written by me, books that I don’t remember ever writing.   

 

• Right Hand Man.  Yep, I wrote that.

• Purpose 101: Practical Wisdom for Manifesting Your Vision.  Hmm.  I don’t remember ever being that intellectual.

• Emily’s Blues.  Hmm.  Not mine, but I might like to read it.

• Hellfire: Book Two of the ‘Greg the Zombie’ Journals. Hmm. Apparently I illustrated that one.  I never knew I was so diverse.

• Aircraft Fire Protection and Rescue Procedures, 206.  Hmm.  My qualifications and knowledge on this subject are as big as a toothpick.

• Creative Writing: Grades 4-8.  Hmm.  Oh, wait.  I DID write that one.

 

I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m just one of the many Connie Williams people out there who write books, and the internet doesn’t know how to categorize us. 

 

So, how would a person know which of these books I really wrote? 

 

Just for reference purposes, my books have events like this:

• someone running with a banana peel stuck to the seat of his pants.

• a child who licks his finger and sticks it in other people’s pudding.

• a theology textbook featuring a dog who barks at the wall.  (I especially doubt if any other Connie Williams people wrote about that.  Or any . . . just, people.)                         

 

So . . . starting now I will write under the name Connie Averitt Williams.