  Writing used to be a solitary profession. How did it become so interminably social?  Whether we're behind the podium or awaiting our turn, numbing our bottoms on the chill of metal foldout chairs or trying to work some life into our terror-stricken tongues, we introverts feel the pain of the public performance. This is because there are requirements to being a writer. Other than being a writer, I mean. Firstly, there's the need to become part of the writing "community", which compels every writer who craves self respect and success to attend community events, help to organize them, buzz over them, and - despite blitzed nerves and staggering bowels - present and perform at them. We get through it. We bully ourselves into it. We dose ourselves with beta blockers. We drink. We become our own worst enemies for a night of validation and participation.  Even when a dentist kills an adored lion, and everyone is furious, there's loftier righteousness to be had.  Now is the point in the story of Cecil the lion - amid non-stop news coverage and passionate social-media advocacy - when people get tired of hearing about Cecil the lion. Even if they hesitate to say it.  But Cecil fatigue is only going to get worse. On Friday morning, Zimbabwe's environment minister, Oppah Muchinguri, called for the extradition of the man who killed him, the Minnesota dentist Walter Palmer. Muchinguri would like Palmer to be "held accountable for his illegal action" - paying a reported $00,000 to kill Cecil with an arrow after luring him away from protected land. And she's far from alone in demanding accountability. This week, the Internet has served as a bastion of judgment and vigilante justice - just like usual, except that this was a perfect storm directed at a single person. It might be called an outrage singularity.  