Menu
Remembering David Daniel
David Daniel, a longtime contributor to this blog, passed away on May 5, 2026, from pulmonary fibrosis. Raised in Weymouth, Massachusetts, Dave was a prolific writer with more than ten novels, more than 200 short stories, and countless essays, reviews and columns. Dave’s obituary recounts more of the fascinating life that he lived. Here, three of his closest friends – Steve O’Connor, Jerry Bisantz and Jay Atkinson – share their remembrances of him:
From left: Steve O’Connor, Kevin Cavanaugh, Jerry Bisantz, and Dave Daniel
David Daniel
By Steve O’Connor
In 2004, needing to get some credits toward recertification as an English teacher, I spotted a class called “Writing Mysteries,” taught by Professor Daniel, the Jack Kerouac Visiting Lecturer at UML. That certainly sounded better to me than classes such as “Teaching To the Standards,” or “Pedagogical Theory in the Technological Classroom.”
I remember taking my seat in the South Campus classroom as this guy in a Hawaiian shirt came in and dropped a pile of books on the desk. He led a discussion about the requirements of a mystery—what might be at its center, a murder, a kidnapping, revenge, a secret, blackmail, or money. We discussed the qualities of a good detective, and Dave pointed out that he or she generally operated according to a personal code of ethics which did not always strictly conform to the laws of the state or the sentences of a court.
Within fifteen minutes, I had decided that this guy was cool and that I could learn a lot from him. Maybe because I was a good bit older than the other students, Dave and I hit it off very quickly, and were soon grabbing a beer after class. As a teacher, I admired Dave’s style. Students would read from their work and we’d critique it kindly, but it was Dave’s opinion that everyone wanted. He was the guy who had published a detective series with St. Martin’s Press. In general, he might ask a few clarifying questions and offer some suggestions, but he was always able to come up with something that he liked about the piece. He was a very careful listener, and what he was listening for was always some reason to encourage the writer.
The semester ended, and by that time we had become pals. We began to exchange stories we’d written. He’d say, “I’m going to send you a story, and you send me something.” He gave my book of stories Northwest of Boston an editorial reading, and I did the same for his Beach Town.
Dave became a regular at our Sunday gatherings at my sister and brother-in-law’s house to watch the Patriots games. Kevin Cavanaugh, Jerry Bisantz, Dave Daniel and I watched most of the great Patriots games during Tom Brady’s twenty-year reign of terror over the NFL. My sister Ellen says that Dave never left without thanking her for her hospitality.
Dave had a clever and soft-spoken sense of humor. I remember attending his retirement party from Middlesex Academy, an alternative secondary school for students who for whatever reason had not made it in a traditional high school. In his farewell speech, he mentioned that in his first week at the school, a fight broke out in his class. He related how the principal had come down to see him and told him not to let it get him down. “What can you do?” she asked, “After all, you’re not Superman.”
Dave told the crowd, “You know, I’ve always felt badly about that because, well, I’ve never shared this with any of you, but…” He then unbuttoned his shirt and drew it apart to reveal the Superman logo on a field of blue.
Dave leaves a large gap for everyone who knew him, and a chasm for some. He leaves two other things of inestimable value. The first is an outstanding reputation as a man, and the second is a first-class body of work. We can no longer walk with him, have a coffee or a drink with him, (he enjoyed a Manhattan), or get his advice in a chat on the phone, but we do have the stories and novels where David Daniel will always live, and I know I will go there often to hear his voice.
When Dave became confined to his home under the loving care of Stephanie and Ally, I started sending him brief recordings I made of comical vignettes by Flann O’Brian, poems recited by Richard Burton, or one of Dave’s own stories. I recall a verse I sent him from a nineteenth century Australian poet:
Life is mostly froth and bubble,
Two things stand like stone.
Kindness in another’s trouble,
Courage in your own.
When I heard of Dave’s passing, I was immediately reminded of Paul McCartney facing the press after the death of George Harrison. McCartney said, “He was a brave lad.” I knew that Dave would always show kindness in others’ troubles, but in his illness he showed unflinching courage in his own. He was a brave lad.
I never heard him bemoaning his fate or cursing his doctors. He was certainly willing to try any remedy, including the water from Lourdes my wife sent him. But when the final prognosis came, he accepted it. On the phone or when I visited him, though weak, he was cheerful, still a sharp conversationalist, and more concerned about you than he was about himself.
When I asked if he had had the energy to write anything, he mentioned in a sort of off-handed way that he was puttering around with his obituary. I don’t recall who it was who first came up with the title, one of his friends, Jay Atkinson, I think, but we sometimes referred to Dave as “the Zen Master.” Never was that title more apt than in his final year. Calm, clear-eyed, and wise—the Zen Master.
The last time I saw Dave, he was sitting on the couch at his home with his oxygen bottle burbled beside him. He was frighteningly thin. Crosby Stills and Nash were playing in the background, and it was evident that the end must be near. As I was leaving, he said, “I love you, man.” I said, “Love you, Dave,” but I didn’t think I’d said it well or clearly enough.
Later, I tried to do so in more definitive terms. The text thread is still on my phone: “I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but your reputation is absolutely sterling. Everyone loves you and has great respect for Dave the writer and Dave the human being. No one has a bad word for Dave Daniel, (and bejazus they’ll hear from me if they do!) But no–you’ve earned the respect and admiration of everyone who knows you.”
He responded, “As for your words that is (or wishes to be) Daniel, go forth and preach to all the lands, etc. (er…I think I’ve got the reference guide around here somewhere)… Whilst he shuffles through papers and divers old manuscripts for something which, of course, he’ll not find, let me just say, on the poor daft bugger’s part, a sincere thanks for being a good friend of himself.”
As I left David Daniel that final day, I heard Crosby, Stills and Nash harmonizing over the lines that could well be the epitaph for the doggedly optimistic and life-affirming man I was honored to call a friend:
Rejoice, rejoice,
We have no choice
But to carry on.
________
David Daniel: A Life Well Lived
By Jerry Bisantz
I first met David in 2007. My good friend (and, believe it or not, fellow actor at the time) Steve O‘Connor introduced Dave to me after our performance in “Kerouac’s Last Call,” upstairs at The Old Court Tavern. He was very enthusiastic about our production, and I introduced him to Patrick Fenton, the playwright, and they talked for quite a while. His knowledge of Kerouac; what made him tick, the many books he had written really impressed me, but what impressed me the most about this tall, skinny guy was his “life force.”
Now, not just everyone has a “life force.” When you meet a person who possesses such a quality, you’d better make sure that, come hell or high water, you do your best to include that person in your life. Needless to say, I bought his book “The Marble Kite” and went on to read all of his books.
Flash forward to our amazing afternoons at Kevin and Ellen Cavanaugh’s house: me, Steve, Kevin, and Dave, enjoying the hell out of each other’s company, watching the Pats games… just four crazy guys enjoying each other’s presence. With Kevin’s Tequila Masterpieces, Ellen’s kind patience and a crazy dog that leaps and barks at shadows, so much was and expounded upon, the laughs were cheap, and sometimes the literary references went way beyond my comprehension, but I (a loyal Bills fan) always just felt so lucky to be able to hang with these guys.
Let me explain. I came here to Lowell 32 years ago. Just a dude from Buffalo, NY who liked to do theater. I have an Associate’s Degree in Applied Optics, I don’t have a lot of letters after my name; for theater producing, directing and acting, I always just learned by doing.
The opportunity for a guy like me to hang out and call the likes of Dave Daniel “friend” is something I never dreamed could happen. I mean, this dude was published, wrote so many books! Steve O’Connor, Jay Atkinson, Paul Marion, fer crying out loud, these guys are really someone I look up to, and here I am, watching football and sharing a friendship with their likes.
Dave was always willing to look at a draft of a play I was working on. His suggestions were always spot on and delivered in a kindly, informative way. In his later days, as he had the burden of carrying an oxygen tank around, I was amazed at how he would still show up, watch the games with us; never complained.
One thing I am proudest of is that Dave allowed me to transform a short story of his to a play format. Called “Hurricane Season,” the short story involved two old hit men, in a diner in Florida as a hurricane (Hurricane Hermione) is coming up the coast. Our jaded hit men have to kill an older man, a washed up actor who owes their boss tons of money. It just so happens that one of the hit men had seen this particular man years ago portray Willie Loman in Death of a Salesman. Needless to say, he is not excited that he has to end this man’s life. We did a staged reading of that play at La La Books in front of well over 60 people. I am so happy that David got to see and hear his words as they were performed.
In a way, that play said so much about the kind of man David Daniel was. As the old hit man expounds about Willie Loman’s plight, and the decision that the killer makes at the end of the play, well, it just lets you know how much Dave knew about the Human Condition. There was so much humanity in his words.
There was so much humanity in this man. David was a gentle soul with a twinkle in his eye, an encouraging smile, and a list of accomplishments that would be the envy of anyone.
I am proud to say that David Daniel was my friend. It’s an honor I will hold onto for the rest of my life.
________
Tribute to Dave Daniel
By Jay Atkinson
For the past fifteen years, Dave Daniel and I would meet at Edson Cemetery in Lowell Mass on New Year’s Eve to drink a beer at Jack Kerouac’s grave. Oftentimes, the sky glowed with an otherworldly light while Dave and I chatted quietly, the only living souls in the vast expanse of the cemetery.
Locals knew Dave as a well published writer and an affable fellow. Tall, athletic and neatly dressed, Dave was a character straight out of an F. Scott Fitzgerald novel. He had an Old-World quality that made everyone he met feel at ease. My late father would’ve called him a “gent,” which was a compliment.
Dave was an exemplary father, husband, US Army veteran, uncle, brother, and neighbor. I called him “Diamond Dave” and we were friends for many years. The name suited him.
A few days ago, I stood with my son Liam and several dozen mourners as Dave Daniel was laid to rest in a Westford, Mass. cemetery. A U.S. Army bugler played Taps, and another soldier presented Dave’s wife Stephanie with a folded American flag. After the ceremony, everyone returned to the First Parish Church United in Westford, Mass.
It was unlike any funeral I’ve ever attended.
80+ mourners spent the day celebrating Dave’s life. From the heartbroken Vietnam War veteran who was terribly ill and drove all the way to Westford to pay his last respects, to the coterie of Dave’s great-nieces and nephews who’d each prepared a recitation of why they loved their uncle so much.
Furthermore, I’d never heard of a funeral where people had been there for six hours and didn’t want to leave.
I’m the first of five children, and Dave was the older brother I never had. He’d published in New York and met famous editors and been wined and dined and all that. When I started selling books in Manhattan, Dave reminded me to keep working hard. To be kind to everyone I met and remember that mothing lasts forever. He was right.
One last story.
In the summer, Dave and I and my son Liam would often meet on the UMass Lowell campus. Liam graduated from UML with a 4.0 GPA and Dave had served as the Jack Kerouac Writer in Residence. We’d climb the hill to what I called “the President’s mansion.”
From there, we’d look over the shiny blue waters of the Merrimack River. I was always happy to be in the company of people I loved and had the profound feeling that everything would be all right.
___
Jay Atkinson is a writer whose latest book is a Boston crime novel entitled STORROW DRIVE. (Livingston Press, University of West Alabama). Jay lives in Methuen and has taught writing at Boston University for seventeen years.
________
Dave’s most recent book is Beach Town which is available from Loom Press.
Dave was the consummate gentleman and a true friend. He lit up a room with a casual, welcoming smile and always offered kind words except when the Patriots & Brady occasionally faltered. My life is richer for having known Dave, an American original. Rest easy my friend until we meet again.
I sipped from these waters, gracefully stirred by Steve, Jerry, and Jay. I heard Dave do a reading in Lowell from Beach Town. I grew up next to Weymouth, in Braintree, and Dave’s stories felt familiar to me and true to our South Shore roots. There were a couple of mornings when my old pal Steve invited me to breakfast with Dave, and the conversation was flowing to and fro on diverse subjects, and it was apparent this man had an ear for detail and a hearth-like humanity. He was one of those guys who makes the world a better place, just by his presence. His absence is felt but he left us his stories and lingering kindness.
That memorial service and the gathering after affected me as no other has. These tributes are beautiful. There is always a reminder that Dave Daniel would have been a rare human had he never written a word. As it was, he inspired and encouraged writers of every stripe. It seemed his lot in life to use his gift that way. And look at the three tributes above — he’s still doing it.
I never met David, except over email, when he gently critiqued an essay of mine that was forthcoming in The Lowell Review. If I ever build a character in some future novel of the perfect teacher, I’ll use the back and forth exchange of our emails as a guide. It’s a real gift to have known him even that small amount. Enjoy your Manhattans in Heaven, Professor Daniels!
Dave was a treasured friend. We spent many a Friday evening together in writers’ group meetings. His prose was always sharp and clear, and he always displayed intelligence, kindness and wit. I looked up to him as the writer I wanted to be.
Although we had yet to meet, I became aware of Dave Daniel when we were both in a stable of rotating essayists for WJUL’s “Sunrise” morning drive-time show in the early years of the 21st Century. I can’t say I was being pigeon-holed after being a sportswriter at the Lowell Sun for 35 years, but I did want to expand my horizons as a writer, and writing for the ears instead of the eyes about any topic I chose was a new challenge for me.
Around 2013, just about the time I was retiring from The Sun, Dave contacted me and asked if we could meet for lunch at Applebee’s on Drum Hill in Chelmsford. He was already a successful novelist, handed me one of his Alex Rasmussen mystery novels to read, and pitched to me a novel we could co-author about the modern Red Sox throwing a World Series, a la the Chicago Black Sox in 1919. I was flattered he would ask but gave him a multitude of reasons why it could no longer happen almost a century later. He asked me to think about it. I had written two published non-fiction books about the Red Sox but yearned to break into fiction. I had already written a roman a clef about baseball and two or three historical novels about WWII aviation that garnered no interest from agents or publishers, and maybe I could ride the coattails of a published novelist to a new career. So I thought about it and sketched some ideas how it might be possible to throw a World Series in the modern era
We worked together on “American Pastime” (about two of the nation’s favorite pastimes, baseball and gambling) for about four years and tweaking the manuscript for another few years without ever getting it published, which was a disappointment for both of us. But it drew us closer together as friends as well as colleagues. We enjoyed each other’s company immensely and conversed about a variety of subjects.
I moved fulltime to St. Petersburg three years ago and was saddened to learn of Dave’s passing. I wasn’t even aware he was seriously ill. I regret I couldn’t make it back to the Merrimack Valley to attend his memorial. The passing of a good man is not only a loss to the literary world but the world as a whole.
I was honored to be inside the flexible circle of David Daniel’s comrades, collaborators, compatriots, colleagues, and just plain pals. Maybe old-fashioned to use this term but I think he would relate when I say he was a classy guy. I don’t know about you who are reading this, but I don’t have a long list of persons I’ve met who fit that description. I first heard about him from afar in Lowell when he began publishing, with a big-time New York publisher, crime fiction set in Lowell centered around a private eye with a downtown office in Kearney Square opposite the Lowell Sun building. This was something new. He won a national award for this work. Roll the tape ahead, and somehow, somewhere I met him on a sidewalk or at a bookstore event or maybe an author’s reading. Gradually, we got to know one another and wound up working together on a few things, allied in our literary interests. This led to occasional meet-ups and email correspondence. And his always encouraging and insightful comments on compositions I showed him or ideas I ran by him. Maybe because he so enjoyed sports, individual or team, he was a great writing teammate. Not only did he contribute to community publications, events, and endeavors like the Howe blog and the four issues of The Lowell Review literary journal, but he also was generous in responding to what others were writing. He was an enthusiast in that sense, urging folks on whether an emerging writer or a mid-stream writer. We will miss his good spirit, his wise views, and small “d” democratic values. It was a privilege for Rosemary and me to attend his memorial service where the remarks struck home and the music was note perfect. I mean, he gave us a little bit of Duke Ellington, Stevie Wonder, James Taylor, The Beatles, Brian Wilson and the Beach Boys, Bob Dylan, and the group called appropriately for the unforgettable moment, America. Thanks, Dave, and we’ll see you next time.
So much to say, will try to keep it short & sweet. Short will be hard, sweet easy, for there was always a sweetness about Dave, everything taken with a wry twinkle. I first met ‘Young Dave’ in early 1970 as a fellow-Army Journalist reporter at the Ft. Hood, Texas ‘Armored Sentinel,’ the weekly Post newspaper(circ. 50,000)where we had to sing for our supper with six required stories per week. Dave being Dave didn’t waste time reporting on the Officers’ Wives Weekly Luncheon or the usual beat drivel but sought out interesting characters, composed a series of poignant profiles of Viet ground-pounders now marking dead time ‘Back in the World.’
He then went on–don’t tell anybody–to evolve fictions, elaborate hoaxes, strange yarns and tall tales, homespun vernaculars,
all under the cloak of journalistic license. It was like an imaginative survival tactic, a creative code. And I thought, whoah, this is what real writers do. They took liberties, with language and pedestrian realities. So, brothers in the art, we fast became lifelong friends. Down all the years, whenever I’d ask, Dave, how you going? He’d invariably say, invoking this credo:
‘Always working–everything’s grist for the mill.’ Amen.
Jim I can say Dave always spoke highly of you & when Dave and I reminisced about our most enduring friendships you were always mentioned
Thanks to Steve, Jerry and Jay for poignant remembrances of the wonderful guy that was Dave Daniel. He was and will remain a rare treasure in our lives. We were lucky just to know him.
It’s so interesting to read all of these different perspectives on Dave from his friends, fellow writers, veterans, mentees, collaborators, and South Shore natives. He made this world a better place for more people than anyone since George Bailey. How wonderful for Stephanie and Ally to see the legacy this man left.
Thank you for publishing these heartfelt and heartwarming remembrances, Dick. I met with Dave only a few times, but each time with him felt real, connected and warm. Dave had a special kind of lightness alongside sincerity and gravitatas.
He was a mensch-always ready to share wisdom and support.
I had the pleasure of knowing Dave and Stephanie when he lived in Arlington. They lived with us for awhile before they moved into their new condo in Lowell, We were so privileged to know them, see them married in a Greek Orthodox Church and then see them really excited about being pregnant. I remember reading Dave’s first novel when it came out.
I lost touch with them over the years, but feel like I caught up with All the wonderful tributes. It was a joy to host them all those years ago. He was such a loving gentle soul, funny and compassionate. Stephanie was perfect for him, because she has the same qualities as I am sure their daughter also does!
To a life well lived, David!
Thank you for these beautiful words for a wonderful man. Over the years, I had the opportunity to see and talk with David at various literary events. He was interested and supportive of what you were doing—and always so kind. Such a loss to all. I’m keeping his family in my prayers.
This is David’s wife, Stephanie. I’ve reread the remembrances several times since they were published. Each time I am struck by the emotional depth, heartfelt appreciation, and brotherly love expressed for my dear David. The comments touched my heart as well. Thank you for seeing in my husband the beautiful qualities my daughter and I have treasured and always will. Wishing all of you health and happiness.
As with many whose lives Dave touched, I was devastated by his passing, even though I knew it was coming. My heart aches for his family and closest friends, whose heartfelt tributes here echo their pain and admiration for him.
I had the pleasure and privilege of knowing Dave for over thirty-three of the eighty-one years he graced the earth, living life to the fullest. Through his stories, I felt like I had gotten to know him from his teenage years through his young adulthood, until he became a prize-winning author and a legendary writer and teacher. Ultimately, he became my inspirational writing mentor and a dear friend, who critiqued my first novel in ’93 and wrote a sterling back-jacket blurb for my latest novel.
Residing in Florida, I was wracked with guilt and sorrow for being unable to attend his funeral. I can only offer my sincerest condolences to Stephanie, Ally, his family, and his friends.
However, through these poignant, vivid, wonderful tributes, comments and descriptions of Dave’s Celebration of life, his final act was played out, complete with a soundtrack and a standing ovation, which has uplifted my spirits.
I am grateful to all of you for that. While it’s often said that Dave was special and will be missed by all, he blessed me with a bookcase jammed with his autographed books that I will find comfort and inspiration in. Amen!