I’m Dan Oshinsky, and I run Inbox Collective, an email consultancy. I'm here to share what I've learned about doing great work and building amazing teams.
I went to see Colin Hay, the former frontman for Men at Work, perform this week. He was great, as I’d hoped, but what really wowed me was watching him create new variations on old songs. Five decades of playing songs meant that he could improvise in the moment, taking one song and intertwining it into the next. He seemed to find new magic in old material.
And it was a reminder for me of how important it is to keep making adjustments. There are certain talks I’ve given over and over again, but I’m always trying to find ways to tweak things to keep it fresh. The core message is the same, but the delivery keeps changing.
You could play the same hits the same way, I suppose, but there’s something to be said for the performer who finds ways to keep things feeling new.
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I took that photo of Colin Hay performing at City Winery in New York on Monday, April 1.
A few years ago, I saw Adam Sandler perform live. He was recording what would become his first comedy special in decades, and honestly, I wasn’t sure what I was in for.
What I was in for, it turned out, was something both funny and unpolished.
Sandler’s set, which he’d trim down to about 70 minutes for TV, ran nearly two hours. He performed original songs and some stand-up material. Some bits worked; others didn’t. The cameras rolled the whole time.
What I discovered later was that this was Sandler’s creative process. He does the same thing with movies: He records lots of takes, lots of different ways, and then figures out which is the funniest once he gets to the editing bay. The goal when he’s recording is to capture all sorts of options — he’ll figure out what works later on.
That’s not a bad way to approach your work. Some things become hits, and others flop. You don’t really know which is which when you’re making it. You can’t always see around corners.
So instead of hoping that your first idea will be the right one, try doing a bit more than you expect. Leave yourself some alternatives. If something doesn’t work, that’s OK. You’ll have a Plan B already waiting for you.
The team at Slate put together a great oral history of Pitchfork, the music site that ran from 1996 until 2024, and there was a line in there from Chris Kaskie, Pitchfork’s former president and co-owner, that really stuck with me.
“We are not trying to be everything to everybody,” he said. “We’re trying to be something to someone.”
It’s something a lot more of us could take to heart. Whatever it is you do, your work doesn’t have to matter to everyone — just to someone.
I read Andrew Leland’s new book, “The Country of the Blind,” this week. It’s a memoir about a writer who has been slowly losing his sight over the previous decades, and he uses the book to better understand life as a blind person in the United States. It’s a fascinating read, and a reminder of just how much sight shapes the way I think about the world. (Even in trying to write that last sentence, the first three phrases that came to mind — “a glimpse into Leland’s life,” “an illuminating read,” “an eye-opening experience” — all reflect a bias towards sight.)
One chapter towards the end of the book truly struck me. Leland visits the Colorado Center for the Blind, a place where members of the blind community stay for months as they learn new skills, from woodworking to cooking to navigating the outside world. Leland meets a younger student at the Center, Ahmed, who offers some advice about how to get around as a blind person:
The single most important skill for blind travel, Ahmed later told me, is that “you have to be willing to get lost, and be confident in your ability to figure it out.” In the early days of his blindness, he once took three hours to traverse a route that would have taken him five minutes with a sighted guide. Eventually he got better at navigating Washington, DC, learning the direction of traffic, the patterns of certain stoplights, the way the sound of another person’s footsteps changes as they begin descending a set of stairs. In Colorado, he learned to use cardinal directions, and can now often figure out which way he’s facing from the feeling of the sun on his face. But, he added, “it’s not like once you leave [the Colorado Center for the Blind], you’ll never get lost again.” … Getting lost is not always comfortable, or pleasant, but it is an organic and fundamental part of the human experience. The more one is able to accept it, rather than fight it, the more skillful one becomes in one’s travels.
Later in the chapter, Leland describes the experience of Ahmed and two other students heading to a local store. As Leland writes, not only do Ahmed and his classmates make it to their destination safely, but Ahmed is so comfortable on the walk that he does some it while walking backwards!
Anyway, I’ll be thinking about this line for the rest of the day: “You have to be willing to get lost, and be confident in your ability to figure it out.”
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That photo of a darkened staircase comes via Unsplash and photographer Carolina Pimenta.
I was rewatching “Pulp Fiction” on a flight the other day. My favorite chapter of that movie is the scene with Winston Wolf, the fixer. Vincent Vega and Jules Winfield get themselves into hot water, and The Wolf gets them out of it.
And I was struck by a thought, rewatching it, that a lot of people think that my job at Inbox Collective is basically that of The Wolf.
Some teams come to me thinking that I’ve got all the answers or magic fixes. I often do not.
What do I actually do? A good advisor isn’t there to have all the answers. My job is to help you ask the right questions — and figure out how to find the answers together.
I’ll admit, it’d be fun to be The Wolf, to be able to come in, survey the situation, and identify a quick fix.
But my job, if I do it well, is to do more than fix the glaring short-term issues. I’m here to help teams build the right strategy in the long term.
All of that starts, not by having all the answers, but by figuring out the right questions.
Last night, I went to the Cotton Bowl in Arlington, Texas, to see my Missouri Tigers play Ohio State. Through the first 40 minutes or so, there wasn’t a lot to get excited about. Ohio State led 3-0 at halftime. Missouri could barely move the ball on offense. There were a lot of Missouri fans near us who were angry, distraught, or dismayed. (Many were all three.)
And then, in the final 20 minutes, everything flipped. Missouri scored a touchdown, then scored another, then forced a fumble to put the game away. Final score: 14-3, Missouri.
My analysis of the game looked a lot different after 60 minutes of football instead of just 40 minutes.
It’s a reminder for me, whether you’re watching football or working on a new project, that there’s a tendency to decide that things are over a little too soon. I know I’ve been guilty of declaring that something won’t work — even if I don’t have the data I really need to make that decision.
Often, the right move is it let everything play out. Once you have all the data, then you can look at what happened, break down the numbers, and decide what to do next.
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That’s the photo I took of the post-game celebration at the Cotton Bowl.
For the past decade, I’ve lived just a few blocks away from the United Nations. And yet, until this week, I’d never actually been inside.
If you’re visiting New York, the UN is worth a visit. It’s tough to visit the UN and not feel a little bit optimistic about the future of the world. Diplomacy is never easy, and yes, we’ve got massive global challenges ahead of us, but it’s amazing to visit a place where all the countries of the world have come together to try to solve big problems. World hunger, nuclear disarmament, climate change — the world gathers here, at a campus on 1st Avenue, to try to find the answers.
I was familiar with a lot of the places we saw on the tour. I’d seen the big Assembly Hall on the news. I’d seen photos of delegates sitting around the table of the Security Council Chamber. But there were a few rooms I’d never seen.
One was the chamber for the Economic and Social Council. The room was designed in 1952 from Swedish architect Svem Markelius.
It’s a beautiful room, featuring wood from Swedish forests. But there’s one particularly unique feature of the room: The ceiling is unfinished.
That’s on purpose, our tour guide informed us. It’s a subtle reminder: The ceiling is unfinished because the work of the UN will always be unfinished. There will always be more to do.
Here’s to whatever work and whatever challenges lie in the year ahead.
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I took that photo of the Economic and Social Council chamber on a visit to the UN.
If you’ve spent any time with me in New York, I’ve probably taken you to Breads Bakery.
Breads opened a decade ago, and as you’d guess by the name, they make fantastic breads: Ornate challahs, delicious croissants, and amazing black and white cookies. But the showstopper at Breads is the chocolate babka, layered with Nutella and dark chocolate. Bring one home, throw it in the microwave for 15 seconds, and you’ve got something close to perfection.
There are other babkas in New York. Some are quite good. But Breads exists on a different level. It’s the kind of babka that’s worth a 30-minute trip, each way, just to get your hands on it.
Not everything is worth the money or the time. I think about that a lot with the stuff I’m working on. It can be tough to know what tools to use or which projects to prioritize. With whatever you’re working on, it helps to have people in your corner who can tell you when something’s worth the trouble. But when you hear from folks that something is worth it, you always make time for it.
(And if you’re at Breads, the chocolate rugelach is great, too.)
A few weeks after Ben was born, we hired a photographer to take photos of our newly-expanded family. Midway through the photo shoot, Ben got hungry and started to fuss. I grabbed a bottle to feed him, and the photographer followed along to take a few shots of us together.
When it came time to burp Ben, I put him into the position I’d been shown at the hospital: His chest on my shoulder, with me gently patting his back. But I couldn’t get a burp out.
“Would you like me to show you how I do it with my kids?” the photographer asked. It turned out she had four young kids, so she’d had plenty of practice.
I immediately handed over Ben, and watched as she propped him up on her knee, tilted him gently forward, and placed her hand on his chest.
Before she could even pat his back, Ben let out a massive belch. Naturally, that position became my go-to any time I needed to burp my son.
It was a reminder that day: Good advice and ideas can come from anywhere. You just have to be willing to make space and listen.
On a Delta flight today, the flight attendant stopped by my row. “Mr. Oshinsky,” she said. “We wanted to thank you for your loyalty.” And then she handed me the note above.
“Aww, that’s nice,” I thought.
A few minutes later, the flight attendant stopped at the row in front of me and handed another passenger a similar handwritten note.
“Aww, that’s so kind,” she said.
And then I saw the flight attendant do the same for someone else a few rows ahead of me, and then for the passenger sitting beside me. All gave a big smile after reading it.
The notes were a tiny gesture — but the fact that someone took the time to hand write a few words of thanks felt meaningful. Had I gotten that exact same message in a marketing email from Delta, it probably would’ve felt far less powerful. The medium — a hand-written note — changed everything.
Those little things get remembered. Those little gestures often feel extra meaningful.
Sometimes, it’s a small act of kindness. Sometimes, it’s someone taking the time to make sure you feel seen and heard.
Whatever you do, do the big things well. But don’t forget about the little moments, too.
