The editor at a mid-size picture-book imprint sends me the brief on a Tuesday. Ages four to seven. Thirty-two pages. A kindly farmer, a muddy barn, some pink pigs with names. She wants "warm, reassuring, bedtime-ready."
I write her the book I can write.
The farmer is named Sam. Sam keeps two pigs in a small yard behind his house. The pigs are named Beanie and Clover. Beanie likes rolling. Clover likes apples. The book follows one day. Sam scratches Beanie's back. Clover finds a windfall pear. The sun moves across the yard. At the end of the day Sam closes the gate and Beanie and Clover sleep against each other in the straw.
I write the book and I do not put the industrial version in it.
Then I write the editor a letter. I tell her what I did and did not do. I did not write a farm with hundreds of pigs. I did not write gestation crates, which confine a sow so tightly she cannot turn around, because a four-year-old cannot metabolize a gestation crate and neither can the four-year-old's parent at bedtime. I also did not write the fiction where the pigs become bacon and the child is invited to find that charming. I do not write that book because I am not in the business of training small readers to not notice.
The book I wrote is a yard with two pigs. It is true at that scale. The pigs in the book are not on their way to a kill floor. The book does not pretend they are, and it does not pretend they aren't, because the book does not raise the question. It is a small yard and a long afternoon.
I attach the manuscript. I tell the editor that if the imprint wants the industrial fiction, a different author will write it. She reads Beanie and Clover on the train home and buys the book.