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When I was a child, I consumed books until my vision blurred. When my GCSEs came around, I demonstrated the endurance of a monk, studying for hours without pause. But in lately, I’ve observed that ability for intense concentration fade into infinite scrolling on my device. My attention span now shrinks like a slug at the touch of a finger. Engaging with books for enjoyment seems less like nourishment and more like a marathon. And for someone who writes for a living, this is a professional hazard as well as something that made me sad. I aimed to restore that cognitive flexibility, to stop the mental decline.

So, about a twelve months back, I made a modest vow: every time I encountered a word I didn’t know – whether in a novel, an piece, or an casual discussion – I would research it and record it. Nothing fancy, no leather-bound journal or fountain pen. Just a ongoing record maintained, amusingly, on my smartphone. Each week, I’d spend a few moments reading the list back in an attempt to imprint the word into my recall.

The record now spans almost 20 pages, and this small ritual has been quietly life-changing. The payoff is less about showing off with uncommon descriptors – which, let’s face it, can make you appear unbearable – and more about the mental calisthenics of the practice. Each time I search for and record a word, I feel a slight expansion, as though some neglected part of my mind is stirring again. Even if I never use “eidolon” in conversation, the very act of spotting, documenting and reviewing it breaks the drift into inactive, superficial focus.

Additionally, there's a journalling element to it – it functions as something of a diary, a record of where I’ve been reading, what I’ve been thinking about and who I’ve been hearing.

Not that it’s an easy habit to keep up. It is frequently extremely impractical. If I’m engaged on the subway, I have to stop in the middle, take out my phone and enter “millennialism” into my Google doc while trying not to bump the person squeezed against me. It can slow my reading to a frustrating speed. (The e-reader, with its integrated dictionary, is much easier). And then there’s the reviewing (which I often forget to do), conscientiously browsing through my expanding vocabulary collection like I’m studying for a vocabulary test.

Realistically, I integrate maybe 5% of these terms into my everyday conversation. “Incorrigible” made the cut. “mournful” as well. But most of them stay like exhibits – appreciated and catalogued but seldom used.

Nevertheless, it’s made my mind much sharper. I find myself turning less often for the same overused selection of descriptors, and more often for something exact and strong. Few things are more gratifying than unearthing the perfect term you were seeking – like finding the lost puzzle piece that locks the picture into place.

At a time when our devices siphon off our attention with merciless effectiveness, it feels subversive to use mine as a instrument for slow thought. And it has given me back something I worried I’d forfeited – the pleasure of engaging a intellect that, after a long time of slack scrolling, is at last stirring again.