Everyone who has studied literature — at least English language literature — knows the famous quote from William Faulkner: "I'm a failed poet. Maybe every novelist wants to write poetry first, finds he can't and then tries the short story which is the most demanding form after poetry. And failing at that, only then does he take up novel writing."

Now poet Brenda Brooks has written a novel, Gotta Find Me an Angel, the title taken from the song made famous by Aretha Franklin. It is clearly a book written by a poet. She has the possibility to succeed in her new choice of expression, even if this particular book is not yet up to the standards expected of a novel of lasting appeal.

While Brooks sets her tale in what can be taken as Toronto, her locale resembles no place in particular. She uses descriptions of place that are more reminiscent of Vancouver than dear old Hogtown. While Toronto is a sea of green in the summer when viewed from a high-rise, there are few chestnut trees in Canada's largest city, yet in her story Brooks often mentions them. Instead, she reminds me of the West End in the West Coast's largest urban space, where they are to be found in abundance.

It seems that Brooks, who was born in 1952 in Rivers, Manitoba, and who has lived in various locations during her lifetime, hasn't quite found a way to separate one space from the other. While she studied at Toronto's York University, she now makes her home on Salt Spring Island, BC. So, perhaps the confusion can be attributed to that.

But, I am veering off the subject of her book. The story centres on an unnamed thirtyish movie buff and film projectionist, who suddenly encounters the "ghost" of a childhood friend. Madeline drowned herself in some Ontario cottage country lake as a teenager for reasons one does not want to reveal as it would destroy the story. What becomes very clear very fast is that the two girls share a forbidden love, and that Brooks has created a very discreet lesbian story. There are no steamy love scenes even though the book is very much about love and failed love.

What for me makes the book a work in progress, so to speak, is that it is viewed through a very narrow lens. To my recollection, the only male mentioned in the entire book, who is not dead, is the projectionist's boss. Most characters are sketches rather than fully developed individuals, even if they are curiously fascinating at times. I also find that I cannot — and I am sure the general reader will agree with me — identify with the lifestyle depicted in the book: the casual use of marijuana at these all-female parties, the forced aggressive language that contains a lot of four letter words, and the lack of sense of place. These put this book into the category of a 'nice try'. Besides, pot advocates should do a little reading about what happens to the hippocampus of regular users. It is a sad and scary brain alteration that should take the glamour out of smoking pot even casually.

One hopes that Brooks will continue to write novels, but will avoid being a purely lesbian writer. All this butch-ness is off-putting, including the photos of her in a leather jacket. Why? What needs to be proved?