anachronism (n.) — something out of its proper time. A wristwatch on Julius Caesar. A character in 1943 who says “no worries.” The cell phone in a movie set in 1957.
From the Greek ana- (”against, back”) + chronos (”time”). Literally, against time.
The chronos family is rich and a little unruly. Chronicle (a record kept by time), chronic (lasting a long time), chronology (the order of time), chronometer (a measurer of time), synchronize (to bring times together), and diachronic (across time). A surprise cousin: crony. It started as Cambridge University slang in the 1660s, from the Greek khronios meaning “long-lasting.” Samuel Pepys used it in his 1665 diary about an old schoolfellow. A crony was originally just an old friend, someone you’ve known for a long time. The grubby political meaning arrived in 1950s America, attached to the Truman administration. The original sense survives in crony, capitalism, and cronyism, but the friendly meaning is buried under the corruption.
For the dual-timeline writer, anachronism is the daily threat. Every page set in 1943 carries the risk that something modern will slip in—a phrase, an attitude, a piece of psychology, a gesture. The job is to keep both timelines honest to their time, and to let them speak across the years without one accidentally borrowing the other’s language.
Question: I’m starting a dual-timeline novel. Should I draft both timelines at once, alternating, or write one all the way through and then the other?
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