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As a child, I consumed novels until my vision grew hazy. Once my GCSEs arrived, I demonstrated the endurance of a monk, revising for lengthy periods without a break. But in lately, I’ve observed that ability for deep focus fade into endless browsing on my phone. My attention span now contracts like a slug at the tap of a finger. Reading for pleasure feels less like nourishment and more like a marathon. And for a person who writes for a profession, this is a professional hazard as well as something that left me disheartened. I wanted to regain that cognitive flexibility, to halt the brain rot.

Therefore, about a twelve months back, I made a modest vow: every time I came across a term I didn’t understand – whether in a novel, an article, or an overheard conversation – I would look it up and write it down. Nothing elaborate, no leather-bound journal or stylish pen. Just a ongoing record kept, amusingly, on my phone. Each seven days, I’d devote a few moments reviewing the collection back in an attempt to lodge the word into my memory.

The list now spans almost 20 pages, and this small habit has been quietly transformative. The benefit is less about peacocking with uncommon descriptors – which, to be honest, can make you appear insufferable – and more about the cognitive exercise of the practice. Each time I search for and note a word, I feel a slight stretch, as though some underused part of my brain is flexing again. Even if I never use “eidolon” in dialogue, the very process of spotting, documenting and revising it breaks the slide into inactive, superficial focus.

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

Not that it’s an simple routine to maintain. It is frequently extremely impractical. If I’m reading on the subway, I have to stop mid-paragraph, take out my phone and enter “millenarianism” into my Google doc while trying not to bump the person squeezed against me. It can reduce my pace to a maddening crawl. (The Kindle, with its built-in dictionary, is much easier). And then there’s the reviewing (which I often forget to do), dutifully scrolling through my expanding vocabulary collection like I’m preparing for a word test.

Realistically, I incorporate maybe five percent of these terms into my everyday conversation. “unreformable” made the cut. “mournful” as well. But most of them stay like exhibits – appreciated and listed but rarely handled.

Nevertheless, it’s rendered my thinking much keener. I find myself reaching less frequently for the same tired handful of descriptors, and more frequently for something precise and strong. Few things are more gratifying than discovering the perfect term you were seeking – like locating the lost puzzle piece that locks the image into place.

At a time when our devices drain our focus with merciless effectiveness, it feels subversive to use mine as a instrument for slow thought. And it has restored to me something I feared I’d forfeited – the pleasure of engaging a intellect that, after years of lazy browsing, is finally waking up again.