Why Editors Ask for the Middle: What Your Sample Pages Reveal

Writers usually assume the beginning is the most important part of a manuscript to share. It makes sense. The opening is where the hook lives, and writers spend endless hours honing it. That first line is rewritten until it bears little resemblance to the draft you started with. Whole evenings go into moving commas, weighing two nearly identical words, or shifting a paragraph around to see if it lands with more punch.

Workshops linger on first pages, critique partners comment on them line by line, and friends pass judgment on whether the beginning “grabs.” Agents demand them before they’ll look at anything else. By the time your draft reaches an editor, those first chapters have usually gone through more work than the rest of the manuscript combined. They gleam with polish.

That is exactly why I often ask for something different. Instead of page one, I want to see a section from the middle. Sometimes I’ll even suggest: “Send me a chapter at random from around the halfway point.” The reaction is nearly always the same: hesitation. Writers pause, sometimes laugh nervously, sometimes confess that those chapters haven’t had the same care. You can almost feel them wishing for more time to sand the rough edges and wondering if they’ve made a mistake and aren’t actually ready.

The middle feels vulnerable. And it should. It’s the part of the manuscript that usually receives the least attention, and therefore it shows the most truth.

Most of us have had the experience as readers: a novel that began with energy, only to lose steam halfway through. The early chapters promised momentum, but by the middle the plot seemed to circle, the characters drifted, and the tension slackened. Sometimes the book recovered, sometimes it didn’t. Either way, that dip in energy changed how we remembered it.

In nonfiction, the problem is similar. A strong introduction sets up a clear premise, but somewhere around chapter five or six the argument starts to meander. Sections feel padded. The same points are made with slightly different phrasing. You finish a chapter and realize nothing has advanced.

That’s why I want to see the middle. It’s not because I expect it to be perfect. It’s because those pages tell me how the book actually works once the glow of the opening has faded.

When I read a middle sample, I’m not looking for fireworks. I’m asking whether the book has stamina. Does the thread of story or argument hold? Does pacing keep the reader moving, or does it falter? Do characters still act in ways that feel true, or are they bent to the author’s convenience? In nonfiction, does each chapter build on the one before it, or has the argument become circular?

Voice, too, is often revealed here. Many writers can sustain a strong voice for a few chapters. But by page one hundred, fatigue shows. The prose that began sharp and lively sometimes drifts into flat or overly functional sentences. That’s not unusual—it happens to almost everyone—but it’s a sign that the manuscript needs reinforcement.

I’ve read middle samples that start with crisp, engaging dialogue and then dissolve into heavy blocks of exposition. I’ve seen protagonists make choices that contradict everything we knew about them, simply because the plot required it. I’ve worked with nonfiction where a bold claim introduced early in the book turns into repetition by chapter six, circling the runway but never taking off. These are the patterns I look for, not to catch a writer out, but to understand what the book will need.

It’s easy to misinterpret this request as a test designed to make you fail. That couldn’t be further from the truth. I’m not asking for the middle to embarrass you. I’m asking because it tells me where an editor can add the most value.

An opening chapter can dazzle, but it doesn’t tell me whether your manuscript can sustain itself across three hundred pages. A middle chapter does. It shows where the pacing dips, where the continuity wobbles, where the voice falters. It also shows whether your book is ready for editing now, or whether it might benefit from more revision in your own hands first. A good editor will be honest about that. Sometimes the best advice I can give a writer is: “Take this draft a little further before you invest in a professional edit.” That’s not rejection. It’s respect—for your time, your budget, and your book.

For writers, being asked for the middle is an opportunity to learn. If you want to prepare for this request, don’t just skim your middle chapters. Sit with the ones that felt hardest to write. Chances are those same passages still carry strain. They may sound forced or padded. They may have paragraphs of filler you hoped no one would notice.

Try reading a middle chapter aloud. Pay attention to your own reactions. Do you stumble? Do you catch yourself losing focus? Those instincts matter. If your own attention drifts, so will a reader’s. Or pull three consecutive chapters and read them back to back. Do they build momentum, or do they sit still? These are signals worth paying attention to—not because you’re expected to fix everything in advance, but because awareness is power.

I often tell writers: the chapters you secretly hope I won’t ask for are probably the ones I most need to see. And more often than not, they’re the exact chapters where an editor can make the biggest difference.

Think of it like hiring a contractor. If all you saw were glossy photos of finished kitchens, you wouldn’t know how well they handle the messy middle of a renovation. You’d want to see the job site mid-project: walls open, wiring exposed, dust in the air. That’s the stage where real skill shows. That’s the middle of your manuscript. It’s not the part you frame for a brochure. It’s the part that tells the truth about the work.

From my perspective as an editor, asking for the middle is never about rooting against you. It’s about understanding the scope of the project. Just as agents use a first page to test marketability, editors use the middle to test longevity. A novel doesn’t succeed because it sparkles for twenty pages; it succeeds because it sustains voice and story for hundreds. A nonfiction book doesn’t persuade because of a clever introduction; it persuades because each chapter adds weight without sagging.

That’s why I ask for the middle. The beginning is your sales pitch. The middle is your warranty.

So if you’re asked to send those pages, don’t panic. Don’t see it as a trap. Send them with confidence, knowing they will show your book honestly. Editors want the part that still carries its seams, because that’s where the real work begins.

And when we see it—when we read through the rougher patches, the places where pacing falters or voice drifts—we don’t think less of you as a writer. We think: here is the material I can shape. Here is the place where editing will make the most difference. We’re looking for possibility, not perfection.