Creative

writing
portfolio
lj johansson
 Manifesto

I have the
Responsibility
to do good with
the mind that
I've been given.
page two
 index
FLUTTERS
HEART
OGILVY'S WORLD
ACCEPTED
SEASONS
BLOCK
SCARS
JASON BAGLEY
SPIKE JONZE
ALICE MELVIN
ANNIE LEIVOVITZ
ANNOUNCEMENT
LONGBOARD
THE USUAL
COMMITMENT
A LETTER
JUL
THE GREAT KETCHUP MASSACRE

page three
Poetry

Flutters mascara. an extra coat

favorite cardigan. with a purple t
lip gloss. in an easily accessible spot
cell phone. double check. good its there
butterflies in stomach. seriously?
moleskine. all my world happens here
macbook pro. the extension of my creative arm
smartwater. to keep hydrated
ALYSSA. Hurry!
the walk
Pass the student center and the science building
to the library. all for a boy
a boy we call farm boy
anxiously waiting his arrival. flanked by support. in the periodicals
after a text. he appears
and his smile lets me know why i pretended to have homework

page four
 Poetry

Heart
My Contrite Jungle doesn’t consist of
Time Square nor the Statue of Liberty
It centers around 5th and Madison
There the heart of the advertising world beats
W+K, Droga5, GREY, McgarryBowen
Sending vital creativity out to the appendages
LA, Minneapolis, Portland and me

ogilvy's world Open the doors to the agency

Skinny ties are standard
Crud jokes separate me from the XY
Acqua di Gio clashes against my Burberry
Pink stands out in a sea of grey, black and navy power suits
Yet here, I thrive
Ogilvy would be proud

Accepted
You are told that you can make it
your name added to the list means your good
being accepted means you are branded with the noun “creative”
you get to live dreams
but what if its not for you

page five
Poetry

seasons Define the season

By the leaves
By the holiday decorations
By the weather
By the drink of choice at Starbucks
By the color of nail polish on my toes

block
that is what I’m feeling
that can’t happen
everything I do revolves
around my creativity
it runs through my body
but when it doesn’t flow
my body tenses up
I make a living by being creative
but the ideas don’t come
neither does my paycheck
looks like it’s a week of ramon for me

page six
 poetry

scars
Each one tells a story
Worth telling
All are painful, But in different
Mostly I’ve forgotten the pain
I laugh as I tell the story
Of the U-shaped scare
That I got in sixth grade
Giggle about the diving board incident
the trampoline got the best of me
learning to ride a bike
added its fair share to me
But with two, the pain still sticks with me
Like the smell of snuck on a dog
The accident and broken love

page seven
pros

I took my creative heros from all different fields and

wrote advice from them to me in first person

Jason Bagley
Before I figured out this whole thing out, I was the guy still at the agency passed
hours. Most of the time I would end up wishing to be transported to an island with
delicious soda drinks or building a giant cell phone out of cardboard or studying the
human torso model in my office. Anything to avoid the certainty that I’m a hack and
will surely be fired in the morning. But after too many times waking up on my desk,
keyboard imprinted on my forehead and mustaches drawn on my face, I came up
with a better way.
Stick to the curriculum. Even when there is a giant animatronic raven calling your
name, inviting you to explore the universe with him. Don’t do it. Hold strong. Remem-
ber, Genius doesn’t exist. Only hard work.
The curriculum is easy. Daily or weekly ambitious quantifiable goals with nega-
tive consequence for failure. Come up with a 100 headlines by noon or you owe your
partner lunch. Fill an entire notebook with ideas in five day or send an agency-wide
email say you wear pink panties on the 17th of every month. Quality of ideas doesn’t
matter. Just quantity. Don’t hold back. Have no fear. Let go. Have fun. Remember its
just advertising

page eight
 pros

SPIKE JONZE
Go big or go home. I learned that in the skate park at an early age. You threw it down
or where stuck picking up your ego and the 7-11 bill. That attitude has stuck with
me ever since. In every aspect of my life. When concepting, go as far out as pos-
sible. Push the boundaries. Go places where no one has gone before. Sometimes that
means craving your own path. Make something that no one has ever seen. Entertain
your audience. Take them on a visual journey filled with twists and turns. Make the
boring exciting.

Alice Melvin
Always be armed. Never leave home without your tools. My moleskine is my
constant companion. Inspiration can come at any time. The subway. At the grocery
store. During your cousin’s nephew’s wedding. You need to ready for the unexpected.
The detail of the tile in the locker room at the gym. The crazy lady’s hat at the cor-
ner market. The color combination of the flight attendance’s uniform. All might be
the inspiration for you next piece. Sketch as soon as you see it, before its a fleeting
thought. Draw when you are hot. Just get it on paper. No editing. Editing come later.

page nine
pros

annie leibovitz
Photographers don’t know how to talk. Sometimes we sit in the studio and ev-
erywhere is very quiet and no one talks. My camera is my companion. It’s a license.
When I was younger I did things with a camera I would not do by myself. I remember
going down to the docks in San Francisco and asking a fisherman if he would take
me out on his boat. I would never do that without a camera. But that experience of
watching the fog roll in, breathin’ the salty, damp air and feeling the rocking of the
waves let me know of the thin line between mortality and creativity. Both are vital
for my soul.
Only through this shyness do I find my creativity. It allows me to step back and see
the world from another view. I’m able to see emotion and details that others don’t
pick up on. This unique view brings another level to the frame.
Take a step back. Look at the whole picture. Use your weakness to your advantage.
It gives you an unique perspective.

page ten
 pros

ANNOUNCEMENT
I have a new boyfriend. His name is Dillon. He watches the stars with me. He gives me
unlimited hugs and cuddles with me when I get cold. He gets me food and picks up
my sunglasses when I drop them. We make an awesome team when we play games.
He holds my hands. It’s a good match. He uses pick up lines like, “You should come
over sometime,” “You have nice finger nails,” and “Can you teach me to swim?” He
is five. I’m a cougar in more than one sense of the word.

longboard
For the last three years, I’ve asked for a longboard for my birthday. Every year it’s the
same response, “Nope. You are going to end up hurting yourself.” Dad has good rea-
son for this logic. One time I ended up in the hospital after an innocent with a plastic
butter knife and a model atom. I was in 6th grade and should of known better. Senior
year, I spent the whole swim season wobbling around because I got bone bruises be-
cause I jumped off a rock and landed on another rock. Two years later, I over rotated
a dive and ended up paralyzed for an hour. To say that I’m accident prone isn’t by no
far an overstatement. But, this year my Dad finally decided that a $3 board from DI
was worth it to shut me up. Trust me. I’m still going to end up hurting myself. But as
for now, I’m happy and willing to pay to hospital bill.

page eleven
pros

THE USUAL
Per email from Nic: “We’ll be meeting in the conference room on the 3rd floor of the
Brimhall. Dress: Advertising Cool.”
Advertising cool?
Stressing, I enlisted my roomies to help me put together my best outfit to fit the de-
scription of “advertising cool.”
High-waisted skirt and an oxford shirt. No. Looks like I’m trying too hard.
Bootcut jeans and a polo. Too preppy.
Tie dye dress and Birkenstock. Too hippie.
Finally, I walk out the door in my usual. A v-neck, cardigan, skinny jeans and TOMS.
Success.

Commitment
I’m noncommittal. That’s why I hate signing apartment contracts and taking show-
ers. My roommate tells me that I should date freshmen. By getting in the shower, it
means that you are committing to the day. Staying in PJ means that you are not. Some-
times my roommate has to threaten me to get into the shower. I like smelling good
and feeling clean. But somedays I need a little less commitment.

page twelve
 pros

Dear FEC,
a letter
Please just love me. Love me even when I burn your grill cheese. Love me when I
ruin your favorite shirt. Love me when the house is a mess. If I’m angry, mad, sad or
stressed just hold me. I’m a crier. It makes me feel better. Don’t try and fix it. Just tell
me that you love me. Please go on bike rides with me and laugh at me when I wear tie-
dye and a polka dot skirt to church. Understand that my family is crazy. But they are
everything I’ve got. My cousins are my best friends. I need to see them at least once
a year. I also run on sunshine and Diet Coke. The ocean makes me happy. So does
jumping on the bed. The Gospel brings me joy. I hope it makes you happy too. I want
to have a square dance for our wedding reception. Complete with a caller. I sleep with
a stuffed animal fish. I like NPR. I like to think that I can dance. I really like trashy TV.
I hope after you read this you will still love me. In return, I promise to love you, grow
old with you and to improve my cooking skills.
Love,
The Future Mrs. Lauren________________

page thirteen
Non fiction

Jul
Blue, yellow and straw. These are the colors that I associate Christmas with. Not
your typically shades of evergreen and scarlet. Nope. Not with my Swedish back-
ground. Christmas is all about celebrating the Swedish blood that flows through my
veins. I’m assaulted with it from both sides. Three of my Grandparent proudly boasts
of Swedish Heritage.
Growing up, no colorful bulbs, twinkling lights, or angels decorate our tree. No
garland dons the staircase. Instead goats of straw and candles scattered the tree.
Red dala horses doted the mantel. No stockings. Instead oversized Ziploc bags. That
wasn’t part of Swedish tradition. Mom had a dream of making us matching red stock-
ings. But that never happened. She was always too busy making $300 Costco run to
keep our family running or taxing us to swim practice. I was jealous of my classmate’s
homes that look straight out of a Norman Rockwell painting. All I really wanted was
multicolor lights on the tree. But that never happened. Neither did getting the tree
up in a timely manner. One year. Christmas Eve. On the way home from church, I
have a distinct memory of garbage picking a tree out of a dumpster after the lot had
close down for the season. Another year, my Madre splurged and bought a tree at
Home Depot the week before Christmas. The next morning, we came down stairs
and found all of the needles on the floor, so Madre returned it. Sometimes the tree
would sit undecorated till Christmas morning. Magically some ornaments would turn
up on the tree overnight. When the tree finally did go up, Madre was particular.
Things had to be evenly space and balanced. We were just so excited to be helping.
Most of the ornaments would end up in groups along the bottom. Madre would either
get too frazzled and take over and send us off to play N64 or redo it over night.
Every year, Christmas Eve is the same run down. Mad dash, last minute shopping
trip to pick up presents, Mom stressing about finishing rolls for dinner that night, Dad

page fourteen
 nonfiction

telling us to clean our rooms. Then the true madness brings. Wrapping. One room in
the house devoted to that sole purpose. When we ran out of tape, you had to get cre-
ative with duck tape and glue sticks. Cousin presents had to be wrapped, along with
sibling presents. That’s where it got tricky. All seven of us in the same room and you
had to try and keep your presents secret. But we would cohorts the younglings with
candy canes to play spy. By the end of that you always knew what you where getting.
Then we all piled into the green, 15-passager van for the ten-minute trip to Gran-
ny and Far Far’s. The second you opened the door to Far Far’s house you were hit
with the sound of joy and the smell of fish. The noise came from the fifty some odd
cousins, aunts, uncles, friends and the odd balls that didn’t have anywhere to spend
Christmas all packed in to my Grandparents’ small ranch. Adults had priority on the
dinning room and living room, kids banished to the kitchens and sleeping babies in
the back bedroom.
The meal would start. And this wasn’t your classic Christmas Eve shindig. Ev-
erything was Swedish. Far Far made a special trip every year to Chicago to ensure
that we enjoyed what his family in Sweden did. Weeks before planning and prepping
went into the meal. Whenever you went over during the month of December, you got
stuck with a job. Sifting, picking, smashing or rolling. Everything reminiscent of the
homeland. The first course was my favorite. Bread, cheese and hard-boiled eggs. Rye
bread, sourdough bread, flatbread, crispbread, sweet bread and my favorite, licorice-
flavored anise seed bread. Everyone else’s plates would be piled high with egg shells.
Not mine. I held to my strict rules of no eggs, meat or cheese. Places were cleared
and the next round was brought on. The fish. The smell was intoxicating. In a bad
way. One year, when I was nine, my first Christmas with the Johansson Family, I
locked myself into the bathroom and dry heaved for twenty minutes. It starts with
the linlagd sill, pickled herring, and it all goes down hill from there. Whole sardines,
lumpfish cabiar, crayfish, lax and the worst, Lutfisk. The fish has an eight-month

page fithteen
Non fiction

journey before getting to my plate. This process includes being dried, soaked in lye,
packed in salt and being buried underground for six months. The end product is a
clear, jelly-like consistency fish with a pH value of 12. For first timers, they had no
idea what they where getting themselves into. Peer pressure forced them take some.
Most often, too much. Lucky, there is gravy to pour on top to make it bearable. Typi-
cally there are two levels of disgust. The first, happens as soon as the fish enters in
your mouth. Everyone snickers and Uncle Steve explains what you are eating. You try
and hide your true feelings but then level two sets in. You realize how much more you
have to get through. Most of the time Far Far has mercy on you and lets it slide. Not
sure why we still even have it at the table, but we would all be highly disappointed
if Lutfisk didn’t make an appearance. The meal finishes up with meat and potatoes.
Here is where Far Far throws in the American classics. Ham, mashed potatoes and
turkey to please the in-laws.
Dinner ends and the Christmas story is read. Then the living room turns into a
bomb of wrapping paper and cards. Each cousin is assigned another cousin to buy a
gift for and still it takes us a good hour to get through all the presents. Granny always
gives us new PJs and a promise of a sleepover on New Year’s Eve.
After presents, its time for rice pudding. Madre can out cook anyone in the fam-
ily and everyone knows it. But rice pudding is Granny’s thing. So we settle for have
the runny, bland Granny version, instead of the rich, cinnimony-vanilla Madre ver-
sion. But with enough raspberry syrup anything tastes better. In the whole pot, one
almond is included. Who ever gets it, will be married in the next year. This year, I’m
positive Granny is going to slip it into my bowl.
Then it’s back to home. Reindeer food spread on the roof and a plate of cookies
out for Tomte, the little gnome like creature that brings our presents. Kids in bed.
Complete with the promise not to wake any siblings in the morning and to stay in
bed till 6 AM. One year, I was 18, everyone was so awful going to bed, the Rents

page sixteen
 nonfiction

cancelled Christmas. We woke up and literally not a present under the tree. Instead
we spend the day cleaning the house and making brunch for our extended family.
Cancelled Christmas was always a threat, but we never thought that they would fol-
low through with it. Boy, did we learn a lesson that year.
Madre and Dad stay up, finishing wrapping and decorating. Now that I’m older,
Madre asks me to stay up and help. Dad is in charge of the stalking, Madre wrapping
and me whatever else needs to happen before D-Day.
Despite the promises, the little ones start stirring around 5 AM. But to their dis-
may, Dad has put a gate at the top of the stairs. 6AM finals rolls around and I’m awo-
ken by Jackers jumping on my bed.
“LOJO!!! NOW! GET UP. NOW! NOW! NOW! Madre says so.”
“I don’t want to. Its too early.”
“Fine. I’ll eat all of you Candy Cane Hershey Kisses.”
“I’m up.”
Then Dad makes us all wait at the top of the stairs, so he can take a picture. He also
taunts us. “Man, Tomte must have loved you a lot this year,” and “Those cookies
must have been killer.” Jackers, Mattias, Elise, Em and Sarah turn into dogs yelping
at their master for food.
“DAD! Can’t we just see our presents.”
“Really Dad. That’s mature.”
“Come on. We are just waiting for Mom.”
But not waiting for Madre would be a big mistake. One year Dad made it. Mom was
sick and Dad just assumed that she would want to stay in bed. Around 9 AM, Mom
made her way downstairs. Devastated at the fact that she put in all this hard work to
ensure that we would be happy and she didn’t get to reap the reward. Needless to say,
Madre wasn’t too happy with Dad the rest of the day.
We start with stalking. Typically we get pop in them. Other then Christmas, pop

page seventeen
Non fiction

is not allowed in the house. Neither then sugar cereal, which is also included in our
stalking. Then we move into the living room for gifts. Unwrapped presents are from
Santa, wrapped from the Rents and siblings. Now that I’ve gotten older, my presents
have gotten more practical. Socks, boots, textbooks, underwear. But everyone in my
family is easy to please. Things included on past Christmas list of Elise have been a
Toothbrush, a candy cane and a box of Cap’t n’ Crunch. She really wanted the spoon
that came in the box. Em and Sarah typically ask for a new swimsuit and a water polo
ball. Mattias and Jackson just need something that vrooms or that you put together.
Dad is probably the hardest. Every year he asks for a gun. Instead Madre bought him
“A Christmas Story.”
“Dad, What do you want for Christmas?”
“I don’t really care. Whatever you get me will be paid for with my money.”
“That’s not true.”
“Whatever. Just get me something cool from DI.”
One year, my Mom wrapped up some baby clothes and an ultrasound for a present.
I opened it and started bawling. “MOM! You have to be kidding me. Six is already
enough.” The rest of the day, I locked myself in my room and cried. Good thing it
turned out that I love that kid to death.
The day wraps up with Brunch at Uncle Fred and Beth’s. The cousins play in the
basement, compare gifts and watch Christmas classics. After it back to our house for
good rice pudding. Typically with a few extra cousins in tow. Madre and the girls end
up at the movies. Dad and the boys play the new video game or go sledding in the
backyard.
This year will be different. Caj is in Argentina. Our family is maturing. Soon we will
be losing siblings to in-laws and the magic of Tomte will wear off. But we will always
have the traditions to unite us and our children in the magic of the season.

page eighteen
 fiction

The Great Ketchup Massacre

“We are sad to admit that we have run out of ketchup packets due to the massa-
cre that occurred earlier and to the rumor that Chuck Norris was here, that is indeed
false. Thank you and enjoy the rest of your time at BEE LINE BOWL.”
Thanks to that massacre, I’m stuck here and not there with Summer Summerhays.
Yep. My life sucks.
BEE LINE BOWL is not the ideal summer job. The mix of three-day-old smoke,
faded avocado green, paper-thin, capert, fake leather, sticky floors, harsh lighting
and bad 80’s love ballads aren’t easy on the senses. Andy was off in Egypt, digging
up mummies and mackin’ on hott foreign girls. James was offered an internship at
the MoMA. Me, all I’ve got is the BEE LINE, cheap domestic beer and Summer. But I
don’t have Summer yet. That’s in the works.
But this massacre is tramping my style. Literally. My white Vans now are stained
a nice blood red.
Why today? Another day would have been fine. But today, Kid Rock is in town. I
planned on skipping the fence to enjoy the sounds of “Mississippi, Jackson” fill the
thick, sticky night air. With Summer in tow. Tonight was the night I was going to make
the move. Our lips would intertwine and swap spit. But no, stuck here. Picking up
hundreds of empty ketchup packets.

The kid wouldn’t take no for an answer.

“Do you have any ketchup bottles?”
“Nope, Buddy. Only the packets.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. That’s the way the boss man wants it.”
“Well. I don’t like ketchup in a packet. Mom says that it causes cancer.”

page nineteen
fiction

“Sorry to hear that. But that is all we have.”

“I will be back. And it won’t be pretty.”
Whatever. How much harm can a pretentious eight year old do?
Turns out a lot.
Here I’m, after hours and the soapy mop water resembles tomato soup. The boss
man blamed this whole predicament on me. Threatened to fire me if the BEE LINE
is not back into shape in time for the Bending Babes practice in the morning. Good
thing I only have 5 hours left and there is no way that all the ketchup is going to be
out from the nooks in the ceiling.
Tomorrow will bring a lost job and lost chances with a girl. But hey, at least I went
out with a bang. Guess the Chuck Norris signature will fund the next week of beer.

page twenty