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.

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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.

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Dave’s most recent book is Beach Town which is available from Loom Press.