I did something yesterday I haven’t done in a very long time: I took myself out on a date. A movie date, to be precise. I had been hard at work on my current manuscript (the second in my new paranormal series) and by early afternoon I was feeling restless and more than a little brain dead. “Cabin fever,” my husband said and he was right. And we both knew the cure. I jumped in the car, rattled over the back roads between our house and the new movie theater in town, and got there just in time to buy myself a Diet Coke and a small popcorn before the previews started. I settled down in an aisle seat, feeling that delicious shiver of anticipation I always get when the lights dim and the candy bars on the screen start dancing. (Okay, so I’m easily entertained. What can I say? I’m a writer. I don’t get out much.) The funny thing is I wouldn’t recognize a Manolo Blahnik if I tripped over one. My favorite sweater is almost twenty years old and I’m fifty-seven. I’d rather spend my money on yarn and books. And I married the first boy I…