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Now I Can Say

I’m An Author

Proving literally anyone can write a book

by Josh Rolph, Author


This true story that can’t be true follows the questionably long but factually arduous journey of a writing amateur whose desperation to become an author far outweighs his desire to do the hard work of writing a book. 

*Learn below what the asterisk in the button above means. If this is confusing, I understand. It’s hurting my brain, too.

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About The Book

One of the most difficult things to do in this life is give birth. The second most difficult thing to do is to publish a book. The easiest way to do the most difficult thing is to get a C-section. The easiest way to do the second most difficult thing is to go through a publisher. The hardest way to do the second most difficult thing is to self-publish.

So in order of rankings of the hardest things to do in life: 1) Most hardest is giving birth; 2) Other hardest: Giving birth by C-section; 3) Second most hardest: Self-publishing a book; and 4) Easiest-most-hardest: Publishing a book through a legit publisher. Speaking of giving birth, something only mothers can do, wannabe author Josh Rolph does all he can to type words in order to birth a book so he can carry the “author” title for the rest of his life.

“Just like becoming a mother,” Rolph authoritatively declares, “once an author, always an author.” He continues, “The author credential can only be taken away if it’s proved that you plagiarized. And believe me, the only thing plagiarized in this book is chapters four through twenty-one.”

Sneak Peak


Chapter 1

How to Write Chapter One but You Shouldn’t Read Mine; Okay,You Should


Chapter 2

“Chapter 2”


Chapter 3

Yogurt & Depression


Chapter 4

I Give Up on Becoming an Author


Chapter 5

I Give Up on Becoming an Author – Part 2


Chapter 6

Eleven Tips for Writing Your First Book

Chapter 1

Resting upon the mantle to my right, an elegantly shaped AA battery-powered analog clock reminds me of the second, each one, passing so thoughtlessly, so automatically, so robotically, in a disciplined though ominous rhythm as if pecked on the rim of a miniature, faraway drum. Without an announcement of any kind, at the reset of the minute, the secondhand points straight upward as if to the heavens, but only for a second, before it falls to the right in evenly timed and spaced juts bursting in absolute micro-increments, descending militantly downward, gradually and predictably, until the narrowest clock hand points directly down to hell with no noticeable pause, beginning the programmed ascent, up again toward heaven. Its destiny is to follow the path of a circle, moving downward and upward, rightward and leftward, again, and again, and again.

If I were to be greatly reduced in size, devolving into a shrunken man, small enough to find myself at home inside the device’s glass encasement, the clock’s hands continuing to tick by the second on the mantle, would I feel much different than I do right now? Inside this ticking museum, the marching clicker echoing louder, how long would I endure the frequent swoop of the longest, slimmest, and least forgiving hand of the clock, its persistent reminder of time’s advancement?

Fortunately, I’m not inside the clock. I’m about fifteen feet away. I’m not a mini-figure. I’m fully grown. Still, the secondhand tick has become to my mind as a drop of water of a classic torture device. I feel the second drip into my ear, finding its way into my bloodstream and neurocircuitry, rattling my soul to its core. Little chance do I have to recover before the next second hits. And then the next. And then the next. 

Trapped inside the clock would be a torturous nightmare. For me, at this moment, I hear the faint click emanating from the clock above the fireplace, repeating a few dozen times until the sound disappears by the hum of a different sound, the sound of complete mental focus, as I begin to write chapter one.


Two days later

February 25


Chapter one.

Chapter one.

First, let me open this book with a promise: 

In this work we might someday call a book, I was thinking it might be important to work out a little arrangement with you, the reader. I won’t go so far as to formalize the agreement. No signatures needed. No notary public. No blood oaths. No spells or strange surprises involving the dark arts. I will not go all cult on you.

The promise is simple and straightforward: In this book, I will not use vocabulary words you have to look up in the dictionary. Schteriously. See, you could try to look up “Schteriously,” but you wouldn’t find it in the dictionary. Promise remains intact. One of the multitude of barriers keeping me from becoming an author for nearly four decades was believing I had to know difficult words in order to write a book. I will prove to the world this is not true when my book is finally published. I will use words you all know and understand. I will do this because they are the words I understand. I don’t understand any difficult words. Schteriously.

[4 hours later]

I just finished writing this chapter, the first chapter of my book, and after writing I knew I better come back to this part to insert a thought. I can do that, right? Is that allowed? 

Here’s the thing: I really don’t want to write the chapter again. I don’t want to even bother rewriting the chapter. Definitely not worth it. The Preface was much more interesting to write. I could write a thousand prefaces. It’s one thing to write about the book, another to write the actual book. It gives me much less respect for book reviewers who write about the book and much more respect for authors of complete books. I will never again read another chapter one the same again. 

There are now so many more words in my book’s word count, why delete them all and start over again? I get the point of quality over quantity, so why don’t we do this instead: Ignore everything else in this chapter. It might even be better if you skipped ahead to chapter two. Schteriously. Don’t read what I am about to say below because it’s not worth your time. Definitely read what I have to say in chapter two, though. Chapter two is definitely worth your time. Full disclosure: I haven’t written chapter two yet. One thing is for sure, chapter two is guaranteed to be an improvement over chapter one.

Also, a warning: this book starts out really slow. I mean, really, really slow. 


[Now THIS is liberating. If I write something in my book I don’t feel like going back to edit or if there is a part of the book not worth deleting, I can write whatever I want and as long as I tell people not to read any further, I’m pretty confident readers will respect my wishes. It’s like a journal written in an indecipherable code, except this one is written in plain English, with words everyone will understand, except it doesn’t matter at all that everyone can understand it because everyone won’t be reading it, only I will be reading it over and over again after I become an author. For those of you who are reading right now, you have one more shot at respecting my wishes by dutifully skipping ahead to chapter two, and you should feel the pangs of shame if you continue reading because it’s just like sneaking into my bedroom to read my own personal diary you know you should not be reading. Okay, now I’ll let the rest of this chapter stand as I originally wrote it…] 


Books can be written in a variety of ways…

>>>To finish chapter 1, buy the book!



“Josh Rolph asked me to write a foreword to this book. Not only have I never heard of Josh Rolph but I have absolutely no interest in reading his book.”

– Anonymous

Now Am I an author?

Josh Rolph is the kind of person that self-publishes a book titled “Now I Can Say I’m an Author,” names his podcast, “The Josh Podcast podcast Show: The Anti-Podcast podcast on God and Man,” and calls his marketing firm the “YEAH YEAH Agency.”

Josh wrote this book doing what he loved. During his metamorphosis from personhood to authorhood, it was said among friends and loved ones that he would do anything for anyone, didn’t suffer fools, and lived life to the fullest. Josh, Non-Author, who wrote this book will be sorely missed. His zest for life during the authoring phase was an inspiration to us all. In lieu of flowers, please purchase more copies of this book.

Josh, The Author, has a number of future book projects planned on a variety of topics but Now I Can Say I’m an Author has to be the first.

In a previous life, Josh worked in politics in Washington, DC and currently lives in California.


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