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As a youngster, I consumed novels until my eyes grew hazy. Once my exams arrived, I demonstrated the stamina of a monk, revising for lengthy periods without pause. But in recent years, I’ve watched that ability for deep concentration fade into infinite scrolling on my device. My attention span now shrinks like a slug at the touch of a thumb. Engaging with books for pleasure seems less like nourishment and more like endurance training. And for someone who writes for a living, this is a occupational risk as well as something that left me disheartened. I wanted to regain that cognitive flexibility, to stop the brain rot.

Therefore, about a year ago, I made a small promise: every time I came across a term I didn’t know – whether in a novel, an piece, or an overheard discussion – I would research it and write it down. Nothing fancy, no elegant notebook or stylish pen. Just a running list maintained, ironically, on my smartphone. Each seven days, I’d devote a few moments reviewing the collection back in an attempt to lodge the vocabulary into my recall.

The record now spans almost 20 pages, and this small habit has been subtly life-changing. The benefit is less about showing off with uncommon adjectives – which, let’s face it, can make you appear unbearable – and more about the cognitive exercise of the practice. Each time I look up and note a term, I feel a faint expansion, as though some neglected part of my brain is stirring again. Even if I never use “phantom” in conversation, the very process of spotting, logging and reviewing it breaks the slide into passive, semi-skimmed attention.

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

Not that it’s an easy habit to keep up. It is frequently very inconvenient. If I’m reading on the tube, I have to stop in the middle, pull out my device and enter “millenarianism” into my Google doc while trying not to bump the person squeezed against me. It can reduce my reading to a frustrating crawl. (The e-reader, with its built-in dictionary, is much kinder). And then there’s the reviewing (which I frequently neglect to do), conscientiously browsing through my growing vocabulary collection like I’m studying for a word test.

In practice, I integrate perhaps 5% of these terms into my everyday conversation. “unreformable” was adopted. “mournful” as well. But most of them remain like exhibits – admired and catalogued but seldom handled.

Nevertheless, it’s rendered my mind much sharper. I find myself reaching less often for the same overused handful of adjectives, and more often for something precise and strong. Few things are more satisfying than unearthing the perfect term you were seeking – like locating the lost component that snaps the image into place.

At a time when our devices drain our focus with merciless efficiency, it feels rebellious to use my own as a instrument for slow thinking. And it has restored to me something I feared I’d lost – the joy of engaging a mind that, after a long time of lazy scrolling, is at last waking up again.