🔗 Share this article

When I was a child, I consumed books until my vision blurred. Once my GCSEs arrived, I demonstrated the endurance of a monk, studying for hours without a break. But in recent years, I’ve watched that capacity for deep concentration fade into endless scrolling on my phone. My attention span now contracts like a snail at the touch of a finger. Engaging with books for enjoyment feels less like sustenance and more like a marathon. And for someone who creates content for a living, this is a professional hazard as well as something that left me disheartened. I aimed to regain that cognitive flexibility, to stop the mental decline.

So, about a year ago, I made a small vow: every time I came across a word I didn’t understand – whether in a book, an piece, or an casual conversation – I would look it up and record it. Not a thing fancy, no leather-bound journal or stylish pen. Just a ongoing record maintained, amusingly, on my phone. Each seven days, I’d devote a few minutes reviewing the collection back in an attempt to imprint the word into my recall.

The record now covers almost 20 pages, and this small habit has been quietly transformative. The benefit is less about showing off with uncommon descriptors – which, to be honest, can make you appear insufferable – and more about the mental calisthenics of the practice. Each time I search for and record a word, I feel a slight stretch, as though some neglected part of my mind is stirring again. Even if I never use “eidolon” in conversation, the very act of spotting, documenting and revising it breaks the drift into inactive, 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 engaging, what I’ve been thinking about and who I’ve been hearing.

Not that it’s an simple habit to keep up. It is frequently extremely inconvenient. If I’m engaged on the tube, I have to stop in the middle, pull out my phone and type “millenarianism” into my Google doc while trying not to bump the person pressed against me. It can slow my reading to a maddening speed. (The Kindle, with its built-in lexicon, is much easier). And then there’s the reviewing (which I frequently neglect to do), conscientiously browsing through my expanding word-hoard like I’m studying for a word test.

Realistically, I incorporate perhaps 5% of these words into my everyday conversation. “unreformable” made the cut. “mournful” as well. But the majority of them stay like museum pieces – appreciated and listed but rarely handled.

Still, it’s rendered my thinking much sharper. I notice I'm reaching less often for the same tired selection of descriptors, and more often for something exact and strong. Few things are more gratifying than unearthing the exact word you were searching for – like locating the missing component that locks the picture into place.

At a time when our devices siphon off our attention with relentless effectiveness, it feels subversive to use my own as a instrument for slow thought. And it has given me back something I feared I’d forfeited – the pleasure of engaging a intellect that, after years of lazy scrolling, is at last waking up again.