🔗 Share this article

When I was a youngster, I devoured novels until my vision blurred. Once my exams came around, I demonstrated the stamina of a ascetic, studying for lengthy periods without pause. But in lately, I’ve watched that capacity for deep focus fade into endless browsing on my phone. My attention span now shrinks like a slug at the tap of a finger. Engaging with books for enjoyment seems less like nourishment and more like a marathon. And for someone who writes for a profession, this is a occupational risk as well as something that left me disheartened. I aimed to regain that cognitive flexibility, to halt the brain rot.

So, about a twelve months back, I made a small vow: every time I encountered a word I didn’t understand – whether in a novel, an piece, or an casual conversation – I would research it and write it down. Not a thing fancy, no elegant notebook or stylish pen. Just a ongoing record maintained, ironically, on my smartphone. Each week, I’d spend a few moments reviewing the collection back in an attempt to lodge the word into my memory.

The list now spans almost twenty sheets, 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 sound unbearable – and more about the mental calisthenics of the ritual. Each time I look up and record a term, I feel a slight expansion, as though some neglected part of my mind is stirring again. Even if I never use “eidolon” in conversation, the very process of spotting, documenting and revising it breaks the slide into passive, semi-skimmed attention.

There is also a diary-keeping aspect to it – it acts as something of a journal, a log of where I’ve been engaging, 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 often very impractical. If I’m reading on the tube, I have to stop in the middle, take out my phone and type “millennialism” into my Google doc while trying not to bump the stranger pressed against me. It can slow my reading to a maddening crawl. (The e-reader, with its integrated dictionary, is much easier). And then there’s the reviewing (which I often neglect to do), conscientiously scrolling through my expanding word-hoard like I’m preparing for a word test.

Realistically, I integrate perhaps five percent of these terms into my everyday conversation. “unreformable” made the cut. “mournful” as well. But most of them stay like exhibits – admired and listed but seldom used.

Still, it’s made my mind much sharper. I find myself reaching less frequently for the same tired selection of descriptors, and more frequently for something precise and strong. Rarely are more gratifying than unearthing the perfect term you were seeking – like finding the lost puzzle piece that snaps the image into place.

In an era when our devices drain our attention with merciless efficiency, it feels subversive to use my own as a instrument for slow thought. And it has restored to me something I feared I’d forfeited – the joy of exercising a mind that, after a long time of lazy scrolling, is finally waking up again.