DAVID SHERMAN worked four stints at the Star and Gazette in Montreal, not counting adolescent forced-labour as a delivery boy. He began as a copy boy, then circulation manager (seduced by a free Pontiac), then music reviewer, reporter and feature writer and then, many years later, over-caffeinated copy editor. Today, he remains a news junkie, trying desperately to kick the habit. He indulges his addiction online, around the clock, often muttering profanities at the screen of the data sucker du jour.
Later, he maintained his obsession by contributing to TorStar and the National Post and, most pleasantly, the Ottawa Citizen, all of which paid the gas habit of his beloved 20-year-old, nearly new, Chevy Impala. It has no radar, cameras or computers. It’s just a car.
His neuroses and OCD pushed him into playwriting, filmmaking and song writing. Signed to a recording and publishing contract with a small indie label about 10 years ago, he has recorded a few CDs, toured the country performing and discovered, like most passions today, it doesn’t pay for the gas in his Impala.
He lives in the Laurentian mountains, or hills, depending on your perspective, north of Montreal, where he most enjoys writing songs by the fire, hosting large dinner parties with a band, cooking, smoking out the house and plotting to get the hell out of town when winter threatens. The rest you don’t need to know.
He is still dabbling in theatre, has completed his second novel for Guernica Editions and is contemplating another, for reasons only his therapist can explain. The Chevy keeps on cruising, albeit with varying degrees of reluctance.