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When I was a child, I devoured books until my vision grew hazy. When my GCSEs arrived, I demonstrated the stamina of a monk, studying for hours without a break. But in recent years, I’ve watched that capacity for deep concentration fade into infinite browsing on my phone. My focus now shrinks like a snail at the touch of a thumb. Reading 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 made me sad. I wanted to restore that mental elasticity, to halt the mental decline.

Therefore, about a twelve months back, I made a small vow: every time I encountered 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 elaborate, no leather-bound journal or stylish pen. Just a running list maintained, ironically, on my phone. Each seven days, I’d devote a few moments reading the collection back in an attempt to imprint the vocabulary into my recall.

The list now covers almost 20 pages, and this tiny habit has been subtly transformative. The payoff is less about showing off with uncommon adjectives – which, to be honest, can make you appear unbearable – and more about the mental calisthenics of the practice. Each time I look up and note a term, I feel a faint expansion, as though some neglected part of my mind is stirring again. Even if I never deploy “phantom” in conversation, the very process of noticing, logging and reviewing it interrupts the slide into inactive, superficial focus.

Additionally, there's a diary-keeping aspect to it – it functions as something of a journal, a log of where I’ve been engaging, what I’ve been thinking about and who I’ve been hearing.

Not that it’s an simple habit to maintain. It is often very inconvenient. If I’m engaged on the subway, I have to stop mid-paragraph, take out my phone and enter “millennialism” into my digital document while trying not to elbow the stranger pressed against me. It can reduce my reading to a frustrating speed. (The e-reader, with its integrated dictionary, is much kinder). And then there’s the reviewing (which I often neglect to do), conscientiously scrolling through my growing vocabulary collection like I’m studying for a word test.

Realistically, I incorporate maybe 5% of these words into my everyday speech. “unreformable” was adopted. “mournful” as well. But most of them stay like exhibits – admired and catalogued but rarely handled.

Nevertheless, it’s made my thinking much keener. I notice I'm turning less frequently for the same tired selection of adjectives, and more frequently for something exact and muscular. Few things are more gratifying than unearthing the exact word you were searching for – like locating the missing component that snaps the image into position.

At a time when our devices siphon off our focus with relentless effectiveness, it feels rebellious to use my own as a instrument for slow thought. And it has given me back something I feared I’d forfeited – the joy of exercising a mind that, after years of lazy browsing, is finally stirring again.