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As a child, I consumed books until my vision grew hazy. Once my GCSEs arrived, I demonstrated the endurance of a ascetic, studying for lengthy periods without a break. But in lately, I’ve observed that capacity for intense focus fade into endless browsing on my device. My attention span now shrinks like a slug at the tap of a finger. Engaging with books for enjoyment seems less like nourishment and more like a marathon. And for a person who creates content for a living, this is a professional hazard as well as something that left me disheartened. I aimed to regain that cognitive flexibility, to stop the brain rot.

So, about a year ago, I made a modest promise: every time I came across a word I didn’t know – whether in a book, an piece, or an casual conversation – I would research it and write it down. Nothing fancy, no elegant notebook or fountain pen. Just a running list kept, ironically, on my phone. Each seven days, I’d devote a few minutes reading the collection back in an effort to imprint the word into my recall.

The record now covers almost twenty sheets, and this tiny ritual has been subtly life-changing. The benefit is less about peacocking with obscure descriptors – which, let’s face it, can make you sound unbearable – and more about the mental calisthenics of the practice. Each time I look up and record a word, I feel a faint stretch, as though some neglected part of my brain is flexing again. Even if I never use “phantom” in conversation, the very act of spotting, documenting and revising it interrupts the slide into passive, semi-skimmed attention.

There is also a diary-keeping aspect to it – it acts as something of a diary, a log of where I’ve been reading, what I’ve been thinking about and who I’ve been hearing.

Not that it’s an simple habit to keep up. It is often extremely impractical. If I’m reading on the subway, I have to stop mid-paragraph, take out my device and type “millenarianism” into my digital document while trying not to elbow the stranger squeezed against me. It can slow my pace to a maddening speed. (The Kindle, with its built-in lexicon, is much easier). And then there’s the reviewing (which I frequently neglect to do), conscientiously browsing through my expanding word-hoard like I’m studying for a word test.

Realistically, I integrate maybe five percent of these terms into my everyday speech. “Incorrigible” was adopted. “Lugubrious” too. But the majority of them remain like exhibits – admired and catalogued but rarely used.

Still, it’s made my mind much sharper. I notice I'm reaching less frequently for the same tired handful of descriptors, and more often for something precise and strong. Rarely are more satisfying than unearthing the exact word you were seeking – like finding the missing puzzle piece that snaps the picture into position.

In an era when our gadgets drain our attention with merciless effectiveness, it feels rebellious to use my own as a tool for slow thinking. And it has restored to me something I worried I’d lost – the joy of engaging a intellect that, after a long time of lazy scrolling, is at last stirring again.