u/Flat_Weekend6660

I am looking to connect with beta readers for CULTICORE, an 88k upmarket novel I’m describing as “the sharp satire and moral descent arc of YELLOWFACE meets the performative ruralism of YESTERYEAR, as told by a protagonist who thinks she’s staring in Clarkson’s Farm.” 😆

It follows Bailey Mae, a disgraced beauty influencer who moves to an off-grid homestead to rebrand as authentic—only to spiral into deception as she chases relevance at any cost.

Here’s my first page or so to serve as a writing sample.

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My fingers tremble only when they trace the scar that splits my face. They hold steady for the eyeliner, applied in one clean swoop. Ten years under a ring light will teach anyone about control.

But this scar still shakes me, as familiar as it’s become. I can’t say what’s more unnerving—confronting the jagged line fresh each morning, or watching it disappear again under my foundation.

It would be too easy, disappearing.

The laptop on my bedroom vanity blinks on, and there it is. My face, almost. Sunlight brings out the edges of my scar, but indoors this filter makes me soft, seamless. A smidge toward ethereal. I’ve become a porcelain doll.

And just as prone to breaking.

No. I focus on my bedroom ceiling, blinking away the pinprick tears. The mascara can’t smudge, not now. I’m going live in thirty seconds and Beauty_Bailey_Mae is never late.

My breathing slows. I’m fine. Perfect, actually. I’ve practiced the script all week. My followers anticipate something big, but no one, absolutely no one, is expecting a tutorial like this.

I close my eyes to manifest the headline one last time.

Beauty_Bailey_Mae Snatches First Place At Minnesota’s 300-Under-30.

It’s provocative. Punchy. Maybe strong enough to catch Mom’s eye. I’m convinced the shame of living only in her memories stings sharper than what I’ve planned this hour.

Twenty seconds left. I pat my lips, pre-moisturized and waiting. My cupid’s bow, while small, has always done the heavy lifting for my face. I hope I’m skilled enough to save it.

Fifteen seconds.

I could still back out. Because it’s a little crazy, this idea. There’s a chance the world won’t understand my intention.

“A chance?” Abby’s voice rings through my head, right on schedule. She likes to chime in whenever I fixate on my scar. “They’re gonna put the ER on speed dial. Such a tragedy that you’re the one between us to live this pathet—”

I pinch my thigh to shut her up. Abby isn’t a ghost, even an angel. She’s an osprey. My dead twin soars through her heavenly realm, only dive-bombing to the planet at moments like this to skewer my self-confidence like a fish.

Two seconds left.

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In a perfect world, a beta would get back to me within 2-4 weeks. I’m not looking for super in-depth feedback, mostly I just want to know if the story holds together and if you feel compelled to read to the end.

Thank you in advance!

Ten months after envisioning this project, I’m planning to shoot it out to a second round of beta readers (and a few agents!!) by the end of the month. Would love feedback on how this version of my query is landing. Many thanks!

Dear xxx,

CULTICORE, an 88,000-word upmarket psychological suspense, combines the sharp satire of R. F. Kuang’s YELLOWFACE with the performative ruralism of Caro Claire Burke’s YESTERYEAR, as told by a protagonist who thinks she’s starring in Clarkson’s Farm.

Minnesota beauty influencer Bailey Mae survives by keeping strict control over her image—her lighting, her angles, and the full-coverage makeup that hides the scar that cost her a family. But after a dangerous livestream derails Bailey’s brand, she drags herself out of the algorithm. Temporarily, obviously. A week at an off-grid pumpkin farm shouldn’t kill her metrics.

Then the unexpected happens: Bailey tolerates the dirt. Maybe even likes it? But the good vibes end when Bailey returns home to find her apartment unlocked. Her towels wet. And a message in lipstick across her vanity mirror: ‘I ❤️ U Bailey Mae’. Nothing’s missing. Whoever broke in wants only to be her. Or maybe just replace her.

Flattered and disturbed in equal measure, Bailey retreats to an isolated homestead, rebranding online as the face of fresh starts and farmcore femininity. So what if she fakes her raw-meat diet and pretends to own the neighbor’s cow? She’s selling the dream, not details. And clicks don’t lie. But as her fame skyrockets, the line between performance and pathology blurs. Her stalker grows bolder. So do Bailey’s justifications for any content that keeps eyeballs—no matter how dangerous. When her viral wellness challenge racks up a body count, Bailey must decide what matters most: fighting for her narrative, or fighting for her soul. Maybe even her life.

I am a freelance writer and agriculture journalist for redacted. When not staring down the nightmare of a blank Word Doc, I’m working in the garden with my two daughters, surrounded by nuisance pigs we couldn’t give away to our neighbors if we tried.

Thank you for your time and consideration.

 Sincerely,

The author

First 300 words:

My fingers tremble only when they trace the scar that splits my face. They hold steady for the eyeliner, applied in one clean swoop. Ten years under a ring light will teach anyone about control.

But this scar still shakes me, as familiar as it’s become. I can’t say what’s more unnerving—confronting the jagged line fresh each morning, or watching it disappear again under my foundation. 

It would be too easy, disappearing. 

The laptop on my bedroom vanity blinks on, and there it is. My face, almost. Sunlight brings out the edges of my scar, but indoors this filter makes me soft, seamless. A smidge toward ethereal. I’ve become a porcelain doll. 

And just as prone to breaking.

No. I focus on my bedroom ceiling, blinking away the pinprick tears. The mascara can’t smudge, not now. I’m going live in thirty seconds and Bailey Mae is never late. 

My breathing slows. I’m fine. Perfect, actually. I’ve practiced the script all week. My followers anticipate something big, but no one, absolutely no one, is expecting a tutorial like this. 

I close my eyes to manifest the headline one last time. 

Beauty_Bailey_Mae Breaks the Plastic Ceiling, Snatches First Place At Minnesota’s 300-Under-30.   

It’s provocative. Punchy. Maybe strong enough to catch Mom’s eye. I’m convinced the shame of living only in her memories stings sharper than what I’ve planned. 

Twenty seconds left. I pat my lips, pre-moisturized and waiting. My cupid’s bow, while small, has always done the heavy lifting for my face. I hope I’m skilled enough to save it. 

Fifteen seconds. 

I could still back out. Because it’s a little crazy, this idea. There’s a chance the world won’t understand my intention.