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When I was a youngster, I consumed books until my vision blurred. When my GCSEs arrived, I demonstrated the stamina of a ascetic, studying for lengthy periods without pause. But in lately, I’ve watched that ability for intense focus fade into infinite scrolling on my device. My attention span now shrinks like a slug at the touch of a thumb. Reading for enjoyment feels less like sustenance and more like endurance training. And for a person who writes for a living, this is a occupational risk as well as something that made me sad. I wanted to regain that cognitive flexibility, to stop the brain rot.

Therefore, about a year ago, I made a modest promise: every time I came across a word I didn’t understand – whether in a book, an piece, or an overheard conversation – I would research it and record it. Nothing elaborate, no elegant notebook or stylish pen. Just a running list kept, amusingly, on my phone. Each week, I’d spend a few minutes reading the collection back in an effort to imprint the vocabulary into my memory.

The record now spans almost 20 pages, and this small habit has been subtly transformative. The benefit is less about peacocking with obscure adjectives – which, let’s face it, can make you appear insufferable – and more about the mental calisthenics of the practice. Each time I look up and record a word, I feel a faint expansion, as though some neglected part of my mind is stirring again. Even if I never deploy “eidolon” in conversation, the very process of noticing, documenting and reviewing it breaks the slide into passive, superficial focus.

Additionally, there's a diary-keeping aspect to it – it functions as something of a diary, a record of where I’ve been reading, what I’ve been pondering and who I’ve been hearing.

It's not as if it’s an simple habit to keep up. It is frequently extremely inconvenient. If I’m engaged on the subway, I have to pause mid-paragraph, pull out my phone and type “millenarianism” into my digital document while trying not to elbow the person pressed against me. It can slow my pace to a frustrating crawl. (The e-reader, with its integrated dictionary, is much easier). And then there’s the revising (which I often neglect to do), conscientiously browsing through my growing vocabulary collection like I’m studying for a word test.

Realistically, I integrate maybe 5% of these words into my everyday conversation. “Incorrigible” was adopted. “mournful” as well. But most of them remain like exhibits – appreciated and catalogued but seldom used.

Nevertheless, it’s rendered my mind much keener. I notice I'm turning less frequently for the same overused handful of adjectives, and more often for something precise and strong. Rarely are more satisfying than unearthing the perfect word you were seeking – like finding the missing puzzle piece that locks the picture into place.

At a time when our devices siphon off our focus with merciless efficiency, it feels rebellious to use my own as a tool for deliberate thought. And it has restored to me something I feared I’d forfeited – the pleasure of exercising a mind that, after years of slack scrolling, is finally waking up again.