Zee Carlstrom’s debut novel, Make Sure You Die Screaming, is a feral, genre-bending road trip across the American psyche. What begins as a bizarre and bleary-eyed drive through red-state desolation morphs into something deeper—an existential howl against family dysfunction, capitalist fatigue, and gender binaries. At once tragic and comic, nihilistic and tender, this book doesn’t ask you to buckle up—it drives through your front door, grabs you by the collar, and drags you on a hellish ride through broken systems and even more broken people.
Carlstrom’s style is as jagged and jolting as the narrator’s internal landscape. With echoes of Detransition, Baby and the fury of Chain-Gang All-Stars, this novel demands you listen to the scream it unleashes.
Plot Overview: A Journey Through Hell and Memory
At its core, Make Sure You Die Screaming is about a nameless, nonbinary narrator who, after imploding in a toxic relationship and flaming out of a corporate job, embarks on a journey from Chicago to Arkansas to find their missing, conspiracy-spouting father. But this is no ordinary quest. It’s a deeply disorienting voyage filled with grief, liquor-fueled rants, psychic breakdowns, and trash-goth mayhem courtesy of their companion, Yivi.
What seems like a classic “absent father” plot quickly veers off-road. Along the way, the narrator wrestles with unresolved trauma, gender identity, the ache of a lost love (Jenny), and the harsh truth that, sometimes, even death offers no clarity. The novel’s climax doesn’t come with a solved mystery—it arrives in the quiet epiphany that screaming might be the only way to live authentically in a world that prefers silence.
Main Character Analysis: The Nameless Narrator
The narrator—deliberately unnamed post-gender implosion—is a mesmerizing contradiction:
- Cynical but sentimental: They rage against hypocrisy yet crave love and belonging.
- Lost but lucid: Amid drug binges and blackout nights, their insight is razor-sharp.
- Ugly, honest, magnetic: The narrator is often unlikeable, deeply flawed, and fully human.
Their stream-of-consciousness narration reads like a fever dream—rife with cultural allusions, existential dread, and brutal self-interrogation. Their relationship with Yivi, a younger, street-smart, knife-wielding goth with her own ghosts, brings levity and emotional ballast to an otherwise chaotic descent.
In many ways, the narrator is the literary embodiment of the scream in the title: urgent, messy, unresolved—but necessary.
Writing Style: Glorious, Grotesque, and Unrelenting
Carlstrom writes like someone trying to outpace a panic attack—with voice, verve, and vivid profanity. Their prose is:
- Visceral: Descriptions crawl under your skin—motel smells, emotional decay, the sting of betrayal.
- Darkly comic: Even in the bleakest moments, there’s wit: “Cars are a mechanical mystery to me, but this one definitely sucks.”
- Lyrically raw: The emotional beats, particularly around family and gender, cut deep without melodrama.
Carlstrom doesn’t sanitize mental illness or identity struggles. Instead, they sling it all at the reader with unapologetic force, trusting us to sift the chaos for meaning—just as the narrator must.
Core Themes: Screaming into the Void
Several themes reverberate like gunshots through this novel:
1. Gender and Identity
Carlstrom interrogates gender not as a label but as a battlefield. The narrator’s rejection of binary identity is not a declaration—it’s a detonation. Their very being becomes an act of rebellion in a world that insists on legibility. Their moments of vulnerability, like the heart-stopping memory of Jenny questioning their identity, are wrenching and unforgettable.
2. Family as Collapse
The toxic dynamic with the narrator’s father, Henry Gunderson, becomes a microcosm of American rot. A once-liberal dad turned QAnon casualty, his disappearance is less mystery than metaphor. When he’s revealed to be dead, it’s not closure—it’s confirmation that some rot cannot be reversed.
3. Capitalist Burnout
The book scorches late-stage capitalism, corporate conformity, and the hollow myth of success. The narrator, a former corporate drone, is physically and mentally broken from chasing productivity. Their spiraling descent reads like a rejection letter to the American Dream.
4. Friendship and Found Family
Yivi is the novel’s heartbeat. Fiercely loyal, unpredictable, and deeply empathetic, she represents the rare human connection that makes survival possible. Their friendship, fraught yet resilient, anchors the narrative in something resembling hope.
5. The Politics of Place
Arkansas is not just a backdrop—it’s a battleground. Carlstrom contrasts red-state Americana—guns, Jesus, MAGA slogans—with the narrator’s Northern liberal upbringing to highlight the deep fractures in American identity. Yet Carlstrom never caricatures either side. Instead, the landscape reflects the characters’ inner disorientation.
What Works Brilliantly
- Authentic voice: Carlstrom’s narrator is complex, self-aware, and unforgettable.
- Sharp social commentary: The novel skewers everything from performative liberalism to unchecked masculinity.
- Atmosphere: Every scene drips with mood, whether it’s a skeevy motel room or a gun-waving convenience store showdown.
- Yivi: As a character, she is both comic relief and emotional lifeline. Her complexity adds depth to a story that could easily veer into nihilism.
What Could Be Stronger
While Make Sure You Die Screaming is bold and fearless, it isn’t without flaws:
Pacing: Some stretches—especially road scenes or inner monologues—feel bloated and repetitive. The middle third could use tightening.
Narrative cohesion: The plot often plays second fiddle to voice and theme. Readers expecting a clear mystery or resolution may find the ending emotionally resonant but narratively fragmented.
Accessibility: The novel demands a high tolerance for unfiltered chaos, heavy substance use, and extended nihilistic musings. For some, it may be overwhelming.
Similar Titles and Literary Context
Readers who appreciated the radical voice of Detransition, Baby by Torrey Peters or the gut-punch surrealism of Paul Takes the Form of a Mortal Girl by Andrea Lawlor will likely resonate with Carlstrom’s approach. There are also tonal echoes of The Bell Jar meets Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, filtered through a queer, post-2020 lens.
This novel also shares thematic DNA with My Year of Rest and Relaxation by Ottessa Moshfegh, particularly in how both protagonists seek meaning (or numbness) through self-destruction and confrontation with identity.
As Make Sure You Die Screaming is Carlstrom’s debut, there are no previous titles to compare directly—but it’s a hell of an entrance.
Final Thoughts: Screaming as Survival
Make Sure You Die Screaming is not a book that coddles, comforts, or resolves neatly. It is a scream into the void from someone who has been gaslit, ghosted, disenfranchised, and unmoored. And yet—somehow—it’s also funny, tender, and even hopeful in the smallest, most unlikely ways.
Zee Carlstrom proves themselves not only as a bold new voice in LGBTQ fiction and literary thrillers but as a chronicler of our messy, post-everything moment. They don’t offer easy answers, but in a world drowning in curated clarity, their chaos feels like truth.
For readers who crave raw honesty, dark humor, and writing that refuses to be quiet—even when it’s bleeding.
