Clockwork Angels: The Novel

I have always drawn writing inspiration from music, and in particular from legendary rock band Rush. My first novel,
Resurrection, Inc
. (1988), was closely inspired by their album
Grace Under Pressure
, which also led to a long-standing friendship with Rush drummer and lyricist Neil Peart. Over more than twenty years, I can point to dozens of my other novels and stories that bear a clear Rush influence (and even, occasionally, offer a little bit of lyrical inspiration in the other direction).

Neil and I wrote a dark-fantasy short story together, “Drumbeats,” but we have always wanted to collaborate on something
major
, a way we could tie together our imaginations—and we’ve achieved it at last with
Clockwork Angels: The Novel
.

The music in
Clockwork Angels
—the band’s twentieth studio album—tells a wonderful dystopian story, ripe for fleshing out as a full novel. In a young man’s quest to follow his dreams, he is caught between the grandiose forces of order and chaos. He travels across a lavish and colorful world of steampunk and alchemy, with lost cities, pirates, anarchists, exotic carnivals, and a rigid Watchmaker who imposes precision on every aspect of daily life.

Neil approached me about writing the novel version several years ago while he was in the early planning stages of the album, and we discussed the story as it developed, building the characters, the adventures, the
ideas
, sometimes with a dozen e-mail exchanges per day. (Neil is himself an accomplished writer, with books such as
Ghost Rider
,
Roadshow
, and
Far and Away
.) As the album came together, I began writing, armed with the lyrics for all the
songs and with Neil’s careful feedback, chapter by chapter, scene by scene. We also had input from the artist Hugh Syme, whose beautiful illustrations added even more ingredients to the mix.

Clockwork Angels: The Novel
is an exciting, innovative project that brings together music and prose, wrapped around a colorful, exciting story. Imagine if someone had written the novel of
The Wall
,
Tommy
, or
Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band
when those classic albums were released. For Rush fans, this is that dream project—but not only for Rush fans, or Kevin J. Anderson fans, or steampunk fans, or fantasy fans. We hope readers of all types will fall in love with the story.

F
or something like twenty years, Kevin and I have discussed working on a project together that would marry music, lyrics, and prose fiction. The right idea and timing eluded us for a long time, but at last, both converged perfectly. It is as though that occasion had to wait until both of us were truly
ready
, as mature artists and—perhaps—as mature human beings, too.

With the novelization of
Clockwork Angels
, Kevin’s unparalleled world-building and story-building skills fully engaged with my lyrics and their expressed ideas, and no writer could be more “comfortable” in a steampunk world (a genre partly pioneered by Kevin, after all).

Much of our shared conception (I know—the “marry,” “engaged,” and “conception” series—metaphors of true collaboration!) was worked through on a day off between two Rush shows at Red Rocks in Colorado—when Kevin led me on a hike to the top of Mount Evans. That was fitting, because it is the kind of setting in which much of Kevin’s writing is created—dictated during long hikes in mountains, deserts, and canyonlands. (Part of my reason for setting the song “Seven Cities of Gold” in a landscape resembling the American Southwest reflects both true history and our shared love for that region.)

As my 38 years with Rush will attest, I very much enjoy collaboration with like-minded artists. Working up this story with Kevin was one of the easiest, yet most satisfying projects I have ever shared—easiest because we almost always simply agreed with each other’s ideas, and most satisfying because I am so proud of the result.

When my bandmates and I finish a new album, we always hope people will be as excited about it as we are—and that is just how Kevin and I feel about
Clockwork Angels: The Novel
.

From the very start, I had stability, measurable happiness, a perfect life. Everything had its place, and every place had its thing. I knew my role in the world. What more could anyone want? For a certain sort of person, that question can never be answered; it was a question I had to answer for myself in my own way.

Now that I look back along the years, I can measure my life and compare the happiness that should have been, according to the Watchmaker, with the happiness that actually
was
.

Though I am now old and full of days, I wish that I could live it all again.

Yes, I’ve remembered it all and told it all so many times. The events are as vivid as they were the first time, maybe even more vivid . . . maybe even a bit exaggerated.

The grandchildren listen dutifully as I drone on about my adventures. I can tell they find the old man’s stories boring—some of them anyway. (Some of the grandchildren, I mean . . . and some of the stories, too, I suppose.)

When tending a vast and beautiful garden, you have to plant many seeds, never knowing ahead of time which ones will germinate, which will produce the most glorious flowers, which will bear the sweetest fruit. A good gardener plants them all, tends and nurtures them, and wishes them well.

Optimism is the best fertilizer.

Under the sunny blue sky on my family estate in the hills, I look up at the white clouds, fancying that I see shapes there as I always have. I used to point out the shapes to others, but in so many cases that effort was wasted; now the imaginings are only for special people. Everyone has to see his own shapes in the clouds, and some people don’t see any at all. That’s just how it is.

In the groves that crown the hills, olive trees grow wherever they will. From a distance, the rows of grapevines look like straight lines, but each row has its own character, some bit of disorder in the gnarled vines, the freedom to be unruly. I say it makes the wine taste better; visitors may dismiss the idea as just another of my stories. But they always stay for a second glass.

The bright practice pavilions swell in the gathering breeze, the dyed fabric puffing out. That same gentle wind carries the sounds of laughing children, the chug of equipment being tested, the moan and wail of a calliope being tuned.

While preparing for the next season, my family and friends love every moment—isn’t that the best gauge of a profession? My own contentment lies here at home. I content myself with morning walks along the seashore to see what surprises the tide has left for me. After lunch and an obligatory nap, I dabble in my vegetable garden (which has grown much too large for me, and I don’t mind a bit). Planting seeds, pulling weeds, hilling potatoes, digging potatoes, and harvesting whatever else has seen fit to ripen that week.

Right now, it is squash that demands my attention, and four of my young grandchildren help me out. Three of them work beside me because their parents assigned them the chores, and curly haired Alain is there because he wants to hear his grandfather tell stories.

The exuberant squash plant has grown into a jungled hillock of dark leaves with myriad hair-fine needles that cause the grandchildren no small amount of consternation. Nevertheless, they go to war with the thicket and return triumphant with armloads of long green zucchinis, which they dump into the waiting baskets. Bees buzz around, looking for blossoms, but they don’t bother the children.

Alain braves the deepest wilderness of vines and emerges with three perfect squash. “We almost missed these! By the next picking, they would have been too big.”

The boy doesn’t even like squash, but he loves seeing my proud smile and, like me, takes satisfaction in doing something that would have gone undone by less dedicated people. He feels he has earned a reward. “Tonight could I look at your book, Grandpa Owen? I want to see the chronotypes of Crown City.” After a pause, Alain adds, “And the Clockwork Angels.”

This is not the same book that I kept when I was a young man in a small humdrum village, but Alain does have the same imagination and the same dreams as I had. I worry about the boy, and also envy him. “We can look at it together,” I say. “Afterward, I’ll tell you the stories.”

The other three grandchildren are not quite tactful enough to stifle their groans. My stories aren’t for everyone—they were never meant to be—but Alain might be that one perfect seed. What more reason do I need to tend my garden?

“The rest of you don’t have to listen this time,” I relent, “provided you help scrub the pots after dinner.”