This part of the studio holds the most weight for me.
Not because the stories matter less, but because they matter so much.

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Letting someone into this space feels different. These pages carry my heart, my time, and the risk of being seen. Alongside the pride of finishing and releasing them, this is also where doubt and fear tend to linger a little longer than they should.

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Where I still sometimes hear the question, who do you think you are,
and have to remind myself that the work itself is the answer.

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I’m not afraid of sharing my work.
I’m afraid of cheapening something sacred.

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These books exist because the stories asked to be carried further than the studio walls.
They were written slowly, with care, shaped by seasons of change and the deeper questions each story needed to explore.

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This page isn’t a sales pitch. It’s a place of humble offering.

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Each story here carries pieces of my heart and imagination, shaped in the space where words and the blank page meet, and released into the world with intention, in the hope that they might one day find a home beyond me.

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The books and stories shared here are finished enough to be published and released into the world, but never detached from the questions that gave them life.

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They come from different chapters, different interiors, and different ways of telling the truth.

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Each one was written to hold what it needed to hold at the time it was created.

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Because these stories do not come from the same place.

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Some stories are shaped in the broken places we learn to survive, where fragility and imperfection become part of the story rather than the end of it.

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Some move further inward.

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They edge into darkness, into the psyche, into the places where reality bends and certainty dissolves. These stories ask what happens when the mind becomes both refuge and threat, when memory, control, and identity blur, and when survival depends on questioning what is real and what is not. They are meant to unsettle, to disturb, and to linger, not for shock, but because some truths can only be told by staying with discomfort long enough to understand it. By remaining inside uncertainty and fear, rather than looking for a way out.

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And then there are stories that move in the opposite direction.

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Stories shaped by innocence and imagination, where wonder offers refuge and joy becomes a form of safety from the outside world.

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These are the stories that carry light, not because darkness is absent, but because hope, love, and creativity insist on existing anyway, even in the middle of the messy days. They offer escape, comfort, and the magic of seeing the world as something still worth believing in.

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The work shared here lives under three names, each one a home for the kind of story it was meant to hold.

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Sadie K. Frazier

 

Sadie was the first voice I trusted enough to let exist.

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She’s where my author voice began to take shape, even before I fully believed I was allowed to have one. With her, I tested the waters. I explored genres I never imagined I’d write in. I let my mind unlock slowly, carefully, and started to believe that maybe this wasn’t just a dream I admired from a distance.

Maybe I could actually do this.

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Sadie is also where I questioned myself the most.

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This was the voice I wrote from when I was afraid to fail, afraid to say too much, afraid to step outside the box I thought I was supposed to fit inside. I kept my thoughts smaller at first. I tried to make myself palatable before I trusted myself to be honest. I wrote cautiously, even when the stories deserved more.

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The first real risk I took was The Chronicles of Travelstead — a steampunk-inflected fantasy about a displaced, Fae-born warrior pulled across realms by blood and prophecy. It was unfamiliar ground and uncomfortable territory, written before I felt confident in my voice at all.

I submitted it to a publisher, terrified of rejection, but when it was accepted, something changed for me that day. That moment mattered more than I can explain. It told me I might be allowed to keep this dream I had going.

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From there, Sadie became the place where I tried on voices and genres I wasn’t sure I belonged in yet. I wrote my first short story. I explored gothic horror and supernatural dark fantasy adventure. I followed stories into places that scared me a little, and others that surprised me with their tenderness.

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Some of these stories came from deeply personal places. Love, Sam was shaped by grief, written after losing my best friend before we ever made it to graduation. Fragments of Hope followed, tracing a woman rebuilding her life after the death of a child. Writing it felt like gathering pieces of myself I thought I’d lost for good.

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Sadie holds the years when I was learning how to speak on the page. How to risk being seen. How to believe that writing could bring something back to life in me.

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These stories are messy in places. They were written while I was figuring things out, while I was still learning that I didn’t need permission to begin. Looking back, I can see how unsure I was. I can also see that starting anyway changed everything.

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Under this name, I’ve published books of my own, and co-authored two with my husband, Stephen St. Clair. More than anything, Sadie represents the beginning — not because I was ready, but because I was willing.

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Eden Cross

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For a long time, I hid behind Sadie.

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Not because she wasn't brave.

Not because what she wrote lacked meaning, power, or truth.

 

I hid in her shadow because she allowed me to stay contained.

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With Sadie, I learned how to write, but I also learned how to remain small. How to brace for failure. How to wait for someone else to decide whether I was good enough. Again.

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The last book I wrote before Eden forced me to question everything I thought I knew about my work.

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It was a cozy mystery with neat arcs and familiar beats with safe and cozy humor. It worked. It was... fine. And something in me knew, deeply and immediately, that it wasn’t true to who I had become.

I ignored that knowing and kept going anyway. I had learned how to make myself fit. I was good at it. So, like I said, I learned to be okay with, "fine."

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Then, not long after, I wrote a short story for a writers group I host at our public library. This time, I didn’t hide. I trusted the room enough to open the door to a spy thriller. And once I did, I understood that this was a door I wasn’t meant to shut.

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Ideas rushed in. Questions I hadn’t let myself ask. Possibilities I’d kept locked away for years. The kind of gut check that makes you realize how much you’ve been holding back, and how tired you are of pretending you’re not.

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That is how Eden was born.

 

Eden is the part of me that’s willing to go where I don’t know if I’ll come back the same.

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She doesn’t flirt with darkness for effect. She steps into it because that’s where the answers are buried. The ones that don’t surface in the light.

 

Writing as Eden means letting myself get close to the things I was taught to avoid. Staying long enough to feel them deeply, risking discomfort far outside my comfort zone. Long enough to understand what they might cost, and what they may reveal.

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There’s risk in that. There’s loss. There’s the possibility of not recognizing yourself for a while. But Eden understands something I could never see before. That you don’t heal by skimming the surface of pain or avoiding the darkness.

You heal by being willing to lose the old version of yourself in order to find what’s true underneath.

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When I finally gave permission for my voice to emerge through Eden, something else happened too. I realized I was allowed to stop my story, figuratively and quite literally, and begin again in the middle of the mess.

I didn’t have to force the book to behave. I didn’t have to keep editing my way toward something it was never meant to be. Pulling it off the market wasn’t an ending. It was nothing more than a temporary, yet intentional,  interruption. A decision to step out of a version of the story I’d already committed to and choose a truer one instead.

 

Rewriting it meant standing inside what I’d already made. The false starts. The wrong turns. The compromises. And trusting myself enough to say, this isn’t it.

 

Eden didn’t ask me to clean the mess up first. She gave me permission to start over, right where I was. And in that moment, I felt myself break free.

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Am I scared? Yes
Could this fail too? Of course.

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But this time, I’m not looking away.​

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This shift is fallible. It carries risk. There are no guarantees here. What’s beginning to take shape isn’t something new, but something truer. My voice. My writing. This studio. All of it finding its footing by shedding what no longer fits.

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Eden is still being born. This voice is still unfolding. I’m still learning what it means to write from this place, without manipulating the dark edges of life or apologizing for the truth.

 

The first book written under this pen name is in its final edits now and will be released soon.

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It’s the point where I stopped editing toward comfort and started writing toward truth, knowing there was no guarantee I’d recognize myself on the other side.

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This is where the work turns inward.
Where the questions stop being theoretical and start asking something of me.

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This is where the work no longer asks to be understood.
It only asks to be told.

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The truth isn’t waiting anymore.
And I’m done asking for permission to speak it.

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​

Averie Blaire

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Averie exists because childhood isn’t always easy, even when we tell ourselves it was.

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These stories are for the dreamers. For the kids who wandered into their imaginations because the real world felt too loud, too uncertain, or just a little bit unsafe. For the ones who built other worlds, other rules, other ways of being, and never quite learned how to turn that part of themselves off.

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Averie’s stories don’t pretend problems don’t exist. They simply believe there is comfort in kindness,where being different is something to celebrate, and where bravery doesn’t always mean you aren’t scared. Sometimes it means taking one step forward, even when you’re afraid of the dark.

Bravery, here, isn’t about fearlessness. Sometimes it’s about taking one small step forward anyway.

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This voice is also for the grown-ups. For parents who wish they could go back and do things differently. For anyone who grew up carrying worry, feeling like an underdog, or wondering why they never quite fit in.

These stories offer a soft place to land. A reminder that it’s okay to escape into books that feel warm, safe, and a little bit magical, too.

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Writing as Averie is where my imagination gets to lead, and my curiosity is allowed to run free. Where wonder makes room for hope. Where innocence is protected without pretending the world is always kind.

These stories exist to offer refuge, connection, and the quiet reassurance that being yourself is, and always has been, enough.

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These stories live under different names, but they are connected by the same pulse.
Curiosity. Survival. Wonder. Truth.

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They ask questions. They build worlds. They leave doors unlocked.

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If something here caught your attention, that’s not an accident.

Trust that instinct.

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Stories have a way of finding the readers they’re meant for.

They were written to be stepped into, not skimmed past.

Follow what pulls at you. There’s more waiting on the page.