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When I was a youngster, I devoured books until my eyes blurred. Once my GCSEs arrived, I exercised the endurance of a monk, revising for lengthy periods without a break. But in lately, I’ve observed that capacity for deep concentration dissolve into endless scrolling on my phone. My attention span now shrinks like a slug at the tap of a thumb. Engaging with books for enjoyment seems less like sustenance and more like endurance training. And for someone who writes for a profession, this is a professional hazard as well as something that made me sad. I aimed to regain that cognitive flexibility, to halt the brain rot.

Therefore, about a year ago, I made a small vow: every time I came across a term I didn’t know – whether in a novel, an piece, or an casual conversation – I would look it up and write it down. Nothing elaborate, no leather-bound journal or stylish pen. Just a running list maintained, amusingly, on my phone. Each seven days, I’d devote a few minutes reading the collection back in an attempt to lodge the word into my memory.

The list now covers almost twenty sheets, and this small ritual has been subtly transformative. The benefit is less about showing off with uncommon descriptors – which, let’s face it, can make you sound insufferable – and more about the cognitive exercise of the ritual. Each time I search for and record a word, I feel a slight stretch, as though some underused part of my brain is stirring again. Even if I never deploy “phantom” in dialogue, the very process of noticing, documenting and revising it breaks the slide into passive, semi-skimmed attention.

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

It's not as if it’s an easy habit to keep up. It is frequently very impractical. If I’m reading on the subway, I have to stop mid-paragraph, pull out my device and type “millennialism” into my Google doc while trying not to elbow the stranger squeezed against me. It can reduce my pace to a frustrating speed. (The Kindle, with its built-in dictionary, is much easier). And then there’s the reviewing (which I frequently neglect to do), conscientiously browsing through my growing vocabulary collection like I’m preparing for a word test.

Realistically, I integrate maybe five percent of these terms into my daily speech. “Incorrigible” was adopted. “Lugubrious” as well. But most of them remain like museum pieces – admired and listed but seldom handled.

Nevertheless, it’s rendered my mind much keener. I notice I'm turning less often for the same overused handful of adjectives, and more frequently for something precise and muscular. Few things are more gratifying than discovering the exact term you were seeking – like locating the lost component that snaps the image into place.

At a time when our gadgets siphon off our focus with merciless effectiveness, it feels rebellious to use mine as a tool for slow thought. And it has given me back something I worried I’d forfeited – the pleasure of exercising a mind that, after a long time of slack scrolling, is at last waking up again.