The Tiffany Problem

On Accuracy and Verisimilitude

If you are anything like me, you have a set of very specific associations with the name “Tiffany.” I suspect those associations include pale blue gift bags, small bean-shaped sterling silver pendant necklaces, white ribbons, girls who wore or coveted these things in 1989, and possibly middle school dances. Maybe, if you are of a more literary bent, you think about Truman Capote and Audrey Hepburn. Wherever you fall in the Tiffany-association spectrum, I’m guessing that none of those associations extend to young women living in the Middle Ages.

(I didn’t actually own this album, but I might as well have. And you’ve probably heard her cover of “I Think We’re Alone Now.”)

The name “Tiffany,” as it happens, has deeper roots than the twentieth century popularity of a certain jewelry store where your correspondent once was employed. As a name, Tiffany emerged in the 12th Century, a variant spelling of Theophania, given to girls who were born on or near the feast of the Epiphany.

For writers of historical fiction, however, Tiffany isn’t just a name with surprisingly deep roots. It’s also a problem. Welsh author Jo Walton summed it up thusly: if a historical fiction author set a story in the 12th Century and named a character “Tiffany,” readers would balk at what appears to be a glaring anachronism. The fact that the name is historically accurate doesn’t matter. The name’s modern associations render it unusable. The name is a speed bump on the continuum between accuracy and verisimilitude.