Jolie Dvorak likes to write steamy, angsty romance featuring women who fall hard and love harder.

When her first book was released, she revealed that ‘Jolie Dvorak’ was, in fact, the pen name of another sapphic romance author and challenged readers to guess who. This led to some very lovely compliments and quite a few long, funny conversations, but Jolie’s true identity remains a secret known only to her truest fans.

If you think you know, send an email to hello (at) joliedvorak (dot) com with your theories. Gold star if you get it right.

As a figment of someone else’s imagination, Jolie’s author bio has been updated quite fantastically with each published book. Here is the rolling history of Jolie’s wonderful author life.

Enthralled in Her Design

If Jolie had to describe herself, she’d say she lived on a yacht in the Whitsundays with her hot wife and cat named Spinnaker. When Jolie isn’t writing, she’s either skinny-dipping over the side with said hot wife or skippering the yacht to Fiji just for a change of scenery. Jolie plays speed chess, sings loudly (but quite poorly) in the shower, and very much enjoys having her back tickled.

Ensnared in Her Symphony

Since her first book, Jolie tired somewhat of the yacht in the Whitsundays and recently purchased a fixer-upper in rural Sapporo, Japan for an absolute bargain. With the distractions of its own hot spring and a traditional Sake brewery just down the way, Jolie hasn’t been much help with renovations, but luckily the wife is good with the tools.

Jolie is looking forward to getting into ikebana. The cat is doing fine.

Captured in Her Gaze

Jolie has moved again. Sapporo was lovely but her latest adventure has taken her to a charming, though slightly crooked, windmill in the tulip fields of the Netherlands. Access is only by bicycle, so she and the wife have purchased a tandem, complete with a basket on the front for the cat. 

Days are spent combing local flea markets in the hopes of finding a lost van Gogh. Evenings are a whirlwind of writing, fueled by strong Dutch coffee and stroopwafels. The cat dozes amid the windmill mechanics and fails to catch mice.

The Nightingale and the Rose

As if the Netherlands were not damp enough, Jolie has relocated once again—this time to a medieval castle in the Scottish Highlands, complete with drafty halls, secret passages, and a disagreeable ghost named Fergus. 

The wife has taken up historical archery and rewilding, and Fergus moans bitterly about her muddy boots. Jolie spends her time exploring the crumbling towers and spreading out her writing in the Great Hall. 

The cat, naturally, has claimed the throne. All three of them have become addicted to cullen skink.

The Falcon and the Flame

Research is important, right? So Jolie left the bonny wilds of Scotland for a writing nook in Marrakech. For the last three months she has been installed in a traditional riad, where life revolves around a central courtyard shaded by fragrant orange trees. The noise of the world filters softly through ornate screens. 

Jolie’s days are spent browsing the souks trying not to buy more babouche and leather notebooks, and sharing a pomegranate juice with the elderly Amazigh ladies who sell aphrodisiacs and snake skins. By night, she gorges on harira and flat bread, drinks endless cups of mint tea, and fills those notebooks with stories.

The wife has a new collection of brass lanterns and rugs, and the cat, somehow, has learned to meow in Arabic.

Of course, Jolie doesn’t actually exist, so all the above is yet more of her alter-ego’s fantasies.

Where should Jolie go next?