Hiatus. (20.3.30)

It was an accident that started with wisdom teeth removal surgery in December and continued with combinations of work, tired, procrastination, and an exhausted backlog.

And current times don’t feel like a good time to try and hold myself to a regular posting schedule.

I want to keep sharing my work with the world, and I’m still writing new work. I’m not sure what form this website will take in the coming months, but I want there to be something here.

So until the world’s on a slightly more even keel, I’ll drop in occasionally with silly things or news, but I’m not aiming for a particular pattern.

I hope you’ll stick through the uncertainty with me.

Stay safe, hold onto love and community whenever you can.

SEAF 2020! (20.3.8)

I’m excited to announce that I have a piece in Seattle Erotic Art Festival’s 2020 Literary Anthology! I’m honored to be included in this awesome collection for another year, and I can’t wait for you to read Glass.

The Text: Read My Art at Seattle Erotic Art Festival, date TBD #SEAF2020, over an image of a nude woman holding a typewriter in dramatic tones.

The festival dates are currently TBD. You can find more info on the Festival Here. It’s always a lovely experience, and I hope to see you there!

Stay tuned for purchasing info for the 2020 Anthology. You can also see my previous pieces in the 2019 and 2018 Anthologies.

I love that there are so many ways for people connect with sexuality, sensuality, sex, and erotica. I am so proud of the paths being forged towards a more free, educated, and consenting society. I think it’s incredibly important that those aspects of ourselves are not silenced or hidden.

Thank you, for however you support erotic arts, sex education, or LGBTQIA+ rights.

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I don’t know what the next month will bring, or whether I’ll be able to attend in person, but I wanted to allow myself a moment still to celebrate this small moment. Without even beginning to take into consideration the tremendous losses our community is facing and that fear that comes with it, my world has been turned upside down from the practicalities, and the economics of social distancing and shutdowns. My world is filled with art and creatives, in my work as a stagehand, in my writing, in my community of queer artist friends. Art as a part of economy isn’t often acknowledged to be as vital and entwined with our society as it is. My world feels like it’s crumbling, and I haven’t even been hit with the impact yet.

Please, keep building and protecting our communities. Wherever you have space, support art. Support writers, theaters, studios, artists, creators, and all the people who work in the shadows to make magic for the world. Keeping art present will help us heal.

Finishing Touches and New Beginnings. (19.12.29)

Timelines for me as a writer are a funny thing. I can say that I will finish something, or post something at a certain time. But whether it’ll actually happen how I want it to, even how I predict it to, seems to be entirely up to the wind.

I’m live with a mind that can’t think of a single thing to do at one moment, and have a staggering number of things to do Right Now at the next. Then of course the next step is picking which thing, which usually involves several hours of contemplation and finally going to bed, having done none of the things.

In my making and projects, I can be stumped with a problem that ends up having a simple solution. But that simple solution takes a couple weeks of dreading having to make a decision, having to go on with a less than optimal solution, or having to carry out the original solution (which is usually not the way it should be done.)

The way I plot my stories is generally an act of zooming in on the story and loading more and more detail as I go. Sometimes the idea stays fuzzy for weeks before clearing up.

In the meantime, time passes, chores and work have to be done, appointments, exhaustion, and taking in others’ stories.

The time I spend on each project sitting down and actually getting it done is probably average. But the time between each session of sitting down is days, weeks, or months. Some of that between time is also working on the project in the background. Watching how other people problem solve, finding new ways to research my project, even remembering at odd moments that I haven’t gotten to a solution and wincing for a moment that it still hasn’t arrived.

It’s never as hard as it seems to sit down and finally do it, once the gestating time, and the must-be-dedicated-to-other-things time is done. But trying to start at any point before that seems impossible.

These aren’t things that are mine alone, or of any special flavor, or unique anti-talent.

Writing involves incredibly long timelines, before and after the adventure of publishing starts (so I hear). There are many strings of life that demand to be followed all at once and some skip around or get hung up in a tree like a doomed kite. Projects too, and they take longer when learning how to do them.

But I’m hoping that learning to recognize, to understand, and notice that, will make it easier to bear the immense scale and long timelines that go into my creations. To build reserves in my perseverance and resilience.

Especially around the time when it’s all about finishing touches and new beginnings.

#GayApparelStories (19.12.16)

I have an exciting announcement!

My piece Festive Flannel has been included in an anthology of queer holiday flash fiction called Gay Apparel!

It’s a baby of Twitter verse and “hey what if?” There’s a bunch of lovely diverse stories, and I’m delighted to be included, and for you all to meet Ella and Zion, as they unpack their own holiday traditions and be adorably gay.

Each contributing author is in charge of distribution based on their own requirements, usually donations to themselves or charities.

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To get a copy from me:

Select a tier including Gay Apparel reward on my Patreon

Or donate at to RAICES and send proof to me at zoebrook.writer @ gmail.com

To get a copy from another contributor, check out this Twitter Thread. (Follow the other authors, and myself, when you get there!)

Add it on Goodreads!

Tell Everyone about how awesome it is!

United Flannel. (19.11.16)

The consciousness we have come to know as flannel has been around for millennia.

It felt the heat of volcanoes, survived sharp cold of ice ages.

It searched endlessly for something to give it form, that felt like home.

Finally, it discovered flannel.

It would be the perfect vantage point from which to interact with the strange utterly irrational, coincidental people that had coated the earth in themselves.

It became flannel, and flannel was strategic. Picky about who it chose, mostly staying quiet, dormant, waiting for the next thing it needed: an ally.

The allies flannel found were the gays.

The gays were the perfect companions for flannel, and slowly it started to open itself up to them, and little by little a symbiotic relationship was born. Warmth and comfort offered on the part of the flannel, with pride, expression, and protection offered on the part of each gay the flannels cohabited with.

Together, they found acceptance for themselves in the world.

Together, they push each other to strive and thrive.

Together, they’ll seek revolution.

Super Patron Creator Arts Grant Application. (19.11.17)

I’m Zoe Brook. I’m a writer.

I write short, long, surreal, silly, magical, and often queer fiction.

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The Woman Dipped In Ink.

Red dress. Black dress. White dress.

White dress, black flowers, red petal tips.

She drifts through the world. Rain pelts the glass in fat, running droplets as she watches. Their streams distort light, views through the window. Inside, and out.

Her fingertips trail down the pane. Longing, loneliness in her eyes.

Ink seeps from her. Constant, viscous, pooling. From her fingertips, heels, hair, tear ducts, it seeps and runs from her, pooling in places, sticking in others. Reflecting slick highlights.

As she drifts, the ink runs like tears around her. It fills her footsteps, dissipating in rain and evaporating into black stains in the sun. It’s left dark and unseen on anyone she touches, without her knowing. It bubbles up through the skin at her throat, sliding down her chest through her dress’s weave without leaving trace, but marking the whole world around her.

The rain is a mild, warm background noise in a cold city, accompanying her tapping footfalls as she walks through the alley slow, barely feeling the rain. The edges of petals on her soaked, summery dress the only spots of color in the scene.

Soaked in experiences turned potential, is this

Her beginning or her end?

She walks, a lifetime of untold stories no longer contained, flowing away from her in fine rivulets.

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Honey Vinegar.

He demanded salad, every Sunday lunch. The centerpiece. In the beginning, it was the symbol of his blandness, his normality, everything that frustrated and hurt her. But little by little she learned to make the salads better. Spiced dressings, bits of added fruit, nuts, or grains. They became her own. He didn’t change, but her salads did.

To this day, honey vinegar’s sweet bite reminds her that she is finally free.

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Potential Accumulated.

Imagine, a city in gray monotone. Noir aesthetic, perhaps with the odd pop of color only occasionally. It’s raining there, striking an odd balance between warmth and chill. The motion of the city blending together into a stillness.

A few people in this city feel balanced within themselves. But most are lonely, brave enough to stay the same, yet lacking the strength that a sincerely offered ear lends. Without quite the bravery to be the first ear in the domino line of change; listless islands they.

Stories are experiences, ideas, woven with magic.

When the metaphorical ink of potential accumulated, would-be written stories, becomes physical force unseen within.

Does it bring hope or sorrow?

Yes. Exactly.