The awkward reality about time travel in my novels; Time Saving started as a mere device to thrust Victorian naval officers into the modern era, allowing them to grapple with washing machines and athletes. The initial concept was: “What if your favorite polar explorer resides in your home?”—he had to arrive in one of two ways. I could either freeze Graham Gore, the icebound captain, for 200 years in Arctic stasis or find a route to drag him into semi-obscurity in London. Of the two options, the latter required significantly less effort.

Even the early drafts of the book lacked a serious take on time travel consequences. The published work shows a government agency investigating historical “foreigners” to determine if time travel warps their body and mind. Initially, the narrative opens in medias res, depicting a baffled Gore asking the narrator how a refrigerator functions. The sequence of action and reaction was far from a priority for me; I simply aimed to amuse my friends.

However, as I continued writing, I realized the necessity of establishing guidelines for time travel mechanics, since comedy benefits from a defined universe. (It’s no joke—thrillers need stakes. A lack of tension is neither exciting nor engaging.) The primary rule: foreigners cannot return (or so the ministry claims). The ministry also doesn’t have the authority to leap forward (likewise). Expatriates have one-way tickets only. This framework was essential for the humor to resonate, explaining why dashing Gore and his reluctant companions were forced to cohabitate. If he could always return home, what significance would their increasingly complicated coexistence hold?

Time Saving is fundamentally a book about time travel, where such occurrences are rare. Across more than 350 pages, it happens only once. I often describe it as a narrative about people navigating bureaucracy in various settings. It’s astounding that readers embraced it.

I had to reflect on the implications for Gore and the other foreigners while adhering to this rule during writing. Moreover, even if they did travel, it would lead to their demise. To preserve the timeline, the ministry selects individuals who are destined to die, ensuring that their absence won’t alter history. Naturally, these foreigners shy away from returning to plague-ridden London or the Battle of the Somme or John Franklin’s ill-fated 1845 Arctic expedition. Who would want to revisit places where they met their end? Yet, they are also reluctant to feel like outsiders in a foreign land. Thus, I portrayed them as refugees.

At this point, I began to take my novels more earnestly. My obsession with the real figure of Graham Gore deepened, as I sought to imagine his life, thoughts, and emotions. I delved into periodicals and literature from his era, attempting to understand how he perceived the world—a world that I now see through different lenses based on location. Increasingly, I endeavored to capture the emotional and psychological essence of being a refugee in a system that treats you as grateful, obedient, and useful.

Concurrently, I sought to comprehend the ministry itself. I began crafting this book amid the fall of 2021, inspired by a decade of the UK’s hostile environment policy. Did the government genuinely believe that giving the means for time travel would result in a welcoming of asylum seekers? This theme echoes throughout the book, prompting readers to consider whether it’s a form of time travel.

Thus, my book is not a scientific exploration of time travel’s mechanics, but rather a narrative journey—a story about traveling through time. I genuinely believe that all fiction embodies time travel; it traverses through distinct timelines, a cherished gift of preserved moments we can revisit, stepping back into a past that hasn’t yet happened.

Kaliane Bradley’s

Time Saving

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