The Unbranded Self

Why is inspiration scary?

Thousands of Saguaro cactus stood thorny and tall against the blue sky as I drove down the mountain toward Phoenix. I marveled knowing that the largest of them contained upwards of 1,000 gallons in water. Each plant was a reservoir hidden in plain sight, a free-standing oasis in a bone-bleached land.

My hand was out the window.

It was dancing on the force of the rushing air, pushing against my open palm. The beastly heat made it feel like holding my fingers in front of a furnace instead of a cool fan as I ignored the speed limit—hurtling through the desert. I could have avoided the trip altogether by having my package shipped, but I wanted to hold the treasure that was waiting for me as soon as possible.

I was on my way to pick up something I had written, or that had written me, to put it more accurately.

As a writer, tapping into an idea that suddenly erupts with riches is like discovering a fresh spring in a barren Arizona riverbed.

And in fact, I’d just had that experience.

I’d been sitting in meditation when I got the message that the universe wanted to commission a piece of writing from me. As vague and flighty as that sounds, the request was unambiguous and specific. It wanted me to author a book called The Unbranded Self.

The message was so clear and compelling that I opened my eyes and almost stopped my meditation to write down the title before it left my mind. But I stayed in place, trusting if this was important, it wouldn’t be forgotten. Indeed, instead of slipping my attention as I went back into contemplation, the book began to write itself. Line after line appeared in my head.

When my meditation ended I walked over to the closet where I had a stack of 8” X 10” scrap paper that had been printed on one side, and pulled out three inches of the pile. I picked up a pen, started to write, and then stopped after the first sentence had been recorded on page one.

The Unbranded Self

I flipped what was now the title page off the stack to my left and sat looking at the blank sheet in front of me.

"Skip this page,” came the instruction.

And so I did. Leaving it blank—I turned it aside.

Facing the next empty page I was given a line that had not come to me in meditation. This was a new communication.

I wrote the words, “This isn’t a book.”

Huh?

Whatever inspiration this was, it was playing bait and switch. This apparently wasn’t a book after all. What was it then?

I was instructed to put this page aside. I turned the words “This isn’t a book,” off the pile, and moved to the next sheet.

Following this same sense of direction, I skipped three blank pages, flipping each one over to my left, until finally being prompted to write another sentence on the page in front of me.

“This is you,” were the words that appeared.

And on like this it went.

Five hours later—the book that wasn’t a book—completed itself.

It was 480 pages long, with many of those pages left blank, and a majority of the pages featuring a single sentence.

I stumbled out of the room in a daze to get my bearings, wondering what I had experienced. I went for a walk, returned to my office and typed the whole thing into a word document. My wife is an editor and one of the people I trust most in the world, so I told her that I’d written something unusual.

“Would you mind taking a look?” I asked.

“Sure.” she said. “Send me the draft.”

I went back to my desk, sent her the file, and held my breath. Looking down the hall I could see her sitting in the chaise lounge in our living room, nestled in one corner where the dappled light was throwing disco ball reflections onto her shoulders, beginning to read.

Unable to sit still, I opened the manuscript to look at it again. Immediately, I saw corrections and edits my wife was sure to point out, and so I set about making the changes.

She read the whole thing in half an hour, walked into my office, saw me at the computer and said, “What are you doing!?”

“Making some changes,” I said, annoyed that I was being questioned rather than hearing her thoughts straight away.

“You’ll ruin it,” she said. “You didn’t write this. It doesn’t belong to you. If you put your fingerprints all over it you’ll lose what this is.”

I knew she was right.

I spent the rest of the day corresponding with printing companies, trying to find one able and willing to manufacture a prototype of a non-book. I could already feel the finished product in my hands. I was being directed to manage its exact size, weight, the thickness and texture of the paper, and the finish of the cover.

When I finally found a print manager who was willing to engage with my unusual project, he had a few questions.

“So this book has no title, no copyright page, no ISBN number, and no author?” he said, trying to wrap his head around the concept.

“Right,” I said. “No dedication, no table of contents, no preface or introduction—and no concluding acknowledgements, glossary, index or author bio.”

“Okay . . . “ he said, trailing off in thought. “What about the cover? Will it be two-color, or four-color?”

“No color,” I replied. “The cover needs to be completely blank.”

The manager made me sign a work order confirming the strange specifics I was requesting and then sent me a quote. It was going to cost me $189.00 to have a single instance of the book in hand.

“It will be ready in two days,” he said.

I gave him my credit card number and waited.

Three days after this idea arrived in my head, I received a call late in the afternoon telling me it was done. The next morning I was speeding through the desert to get it.

It was in a shrink wrapped bag when the cashier handed it to me like it was an ordinary object. I darted out to the car and tore at the suffocating plastic with my fingers to liberate my baby and let it breathe in my hands.

Four days ago, it didn’t exist. Not even as a thought in my mind. Now, here I was, holding the thing in my hand that I’d been asked to midwife into the world. And it was perfect. The feel. The density. The sense of presence it exuded with its blank exterior. All what I—or really it—had imagined it could become.

The prototype had proved the details right, so I ordered 100 copies to be printed. My specifications made each copy enormously expensive, but that didn’t matter. They were supposed to exist. Someone was supposed to have them.

“So who wound up with the books?” you might be wondering.

Um . . . no one.

I sent a handful to family and a few close friends. Ninety-one copies are still in my closet. I created a website for the project, including an order page where it could be purchased, but told no one about it. It was a unique creation that came from nowhere, made a brief appearance in my hands, and then I sent it back to the ethers and locked it behind the door or my insecurities.

But just recently, I got an email.

“You’ve sold a copy of Unbranded Self,” the Stripe receipt said.

I had all but forgotten about the whole thing, but now, someone had stumbled on the site and ordered a copy. I shipped my first unprompted, bonafide public sale and sent a message to the buyer, thanking him and letting him know it was on the way.

“By the way,” I said. “I’d be curious to know how you found out about the project.”

“A client of mine had a vision,” the buyer Dave explained, “of starting his own coaching business and calling it the Unbranded Self. We searched the name and found your site.”

Despite the independently occurring inspiration of a stranger I’d never met confirming this idea wanted to exist, I was still acting like it was up to me whether it saw the light of day. Neither the ease of its spontaneous appearance nor the great encouragement of friends who read the work were able to loosen the grip of anxiety that warned me off sharing it. I’d failed to “keep my fingerprints” off of it, as per my wife’s advice. I’d edited its appearance in the world.

Still dragging my feet on what to do with the project, I was enjoying an essay by my writing friend,

CansaFis Foote

. It was one of his endlessly insightful and entertaining rants, this time about social media and the alternative platform he’d like to build.

In the midst of a comment exchange between us, he asked . . .

“. . . if you could only make one post ever --> what would it look like?...”

I didn’t need more than a moment to think.

The Unbranded Self is the most important communication that I’ve ever assisted to exist in the world. It’s the one thing I’d share if I could only share one thing.

I managed to get past my hesitation and share a link with CansaFis in the comment section.

And this is where I found myself in the last few days. Asking myself the question . . .

“Why in the world would I hide the most inspirational thing that’s squeaked through the veil and entrusted itself to my care?”

Just this morning a friend of mine was talking about the energy of play and how dynamic it is. Inspiration is certainly a form of play. It occurred to me that inspiration can often feel scary, because it’s supercharged play. And when you play big, the universe plays back. That’s when we lose control.

So here I am. About to lose it.

Running a post about how The Unbranded Self showed up in the world, how I’ve been trying to stop it, and how you can read it—despite my fears and doubts.

If you’re interested in the work, I’ve made the entire concept available in an online reader. It’s not quite the same as holding it in your hands, but you can order a physical copy on the site as well if you’re moved to support the project.

You can start with a full read of it here.

It’s not a story.

It’s more of an experience as Dave describes it.

And if you’re not in the habit of reading books, don’t worry, I’ve got you covered.

This isn’t a book.

This is you.

---

Dave’s Testimonial

“This isn’t just a book—it’s an experience.

Holding Rick Lewis’ work, The Unbranded Self, felt like holding space itself. The simplicity, the absence of branding, clutter, and distractions created a profound spaciousness that invited me to lean deeper into my own sense of self. Journeying through the pages helped deepen my connection to the reality that I am beyond the labels and constructions the world tries to place on me and that I place on the world. I simply am—an open vessel, free to explore from open awareness. The book invoked, almost like a meditation, a felt sense of presence, peace, and curiosity, guiding me to further be with what might be holding me back from even more spaciousness in my life. This absence of noise and clutter helps further the journey.”

---

More Testimonials From Friends Who’ve Read
The Unbranded Self

---

When I first saw the book, The Unbranded Self, I was immediately intrigued. Who publishes a book with nothing on the cover?

But as I dived into the book, curious to see what it was all about, I actually laughed out loud. "This is brilliant!" I said to my wife. Right off the top, this guy is declaring, "This is not a book!"

And then I realized that it was true. The Unbranded Self is much more than a book It's a meditation . . . a thought experiment . . . an invitation to powerful insights wonderfully instigated by simple statements in the book . . . but revealed by one's own heart.

With something this unique it is hard to find the right words to describe it, but as someone who has led transformational workshops for over two decades, I found this book to be an ingeniously designed workshop.

So please, buy it, I'm excited for you to do so. And then . . . take it slowly, let its questions and phrases slowly provoke your soul to reveal to you the wonder that you are.

And, as you encounter the brilliantly placed blank pages throughout the book, listen past your ego and tune into your inner sage that loves those blank pages as much or more than the written pages because they create room for you to ponder, ruminate, and discover.

The Unbranded Self is not a book. It is a very personal Sacred Journey.

—Christopher Harding

---

WOW! Reading this was very impactful---made me stop and think, really think. I'm in awe of people who think on this level and can create something like this. I can't wait to share this with friends. Thanks so much for sending this to me!

Love and grateful hugs,

—Deborah

---

As the non-author keeps asserting (and she/he/it is absolutely right) - this is not a book.

In a book, we ride inside a vehicle that we don’t steer, watching and absorbing the sights as they pass by - contiguously, uninterruptedly. “Leave the driving to us."

In the context of this non-authored non-book, I am not just along for the ride. There is steering I need to do, backwards and forwards, from landmark to landmark.

Sometimes there is a monument that goes by just too quickly and I want to steer back for another look, another pass around it.

For example, page 100:

You are not a line of thinking that must logically prove to anyone that you deserve to exist.

Between landmarks, of course, come blank stretches of highway. Boring, perhaps? Something to just be endured, until the next object of interest heaves into sight?

Time to reach for the coffee or the sugar or the pills just to stay awake?

No, not in this non-book. Here the real action is in all those non-branded, non-illustrated blank pages. Those blank stretches of highway between landmarks in which - if I'm able to travel them with somewhat steady awareness - I observe my self reflected back to me.

I realise that, really, all the landmarks ever did was to remind me of things (at times, quite noble things) that in fact I already knew.

There are no pages missing, ever, yet in any moment everything can be completely missed. Unless, of course, I am truly devoted.

The willingness to refrain from sending your attention away from this moment is the true meaning of devotion.

Thanks for letting me run along this highway for awhile with you, Mr Rick.

—Michael Menager

---

Wow.

WOW…

I really enjoyed reading this.

Which is to say, I really enjoyed experiencing myself.

For once...

Reading this is an act of meditation.

Writing it was an act of wisdom, love and courage.

And for that, I thank you.

While I was reading it, I thought about the possibility of copying each line and putting it onto a Word doc so I can read it more efficiently — you know, just power through it while multitasking and spilling my coffee.

If I did that, I’d be a smart person, doing something REALLY DUMB…

Instead, I set my iCal to read this (and in doing so meditate on myself, enjoying the process of enjoying myself) once a week.

Seriously.

Maybe that’s weird. So am I. Guilty as charged. :)

As I’m sure you already know, this act of meditation dovetails nicely with such titles as “The Untethered Soul,” “The Power of Now,” and “The Four Agreements.”

But they’re all books. This is an experience. BIG difference.

Thanks for sharing it!!

—Larry Urish

---