Categories: Art & CultureKLAT Awards

“I Can’t Be the Only One”: In Conversation with KLAT Awards Finalist, Connor Allen

By the time you learn about Connor Allen, you get the sense that this is someone who’s lived multiple lifetimes already. Poet. Performer. Actor. Former Children’s Laureate for Wales. A kid from a Newport council estate who once didn’t know where he belonged. And now? A voice that refuses to be boxed in.

In this Conversation with KLAT Magazine, Writer of the Year finalist Connor Allen talks about finding truth through storytelling, embracing vulnerability, and why representing real lives, his own and others’, is at the heart of everything he creates.

“I did a play back in 2016 called BIRD by Katherine Chandler,” Connor says, thinking back to when it all started to click. “It was the first time a story really resonated with me, like it was written for the characters on my estate. That’s when I thought, oh, you can write contemporary stories. It’s not all Shakespeare and fairy tales.”

For Connor, writing isn’t just a creative outlet, it’s the backbone that connects everything else. Acting, performing, poetry, theatre all rooted in the power of story. “Writing is fundamental to society,” he says. “It interlinks all my creative outlets.”

What sets Connor’s work apart is the emotional honesty pulsing through every line. His stories often draw from personal pain, growth, and reflection, and he always writes to connect, not just for catharsis.

“We’re all stories,” he says simply. “If I can relay an experience that someone else resonates with, then that’s a win. There’s not much greater joy than realising you’re not alone in this world.”

He remembers the exact moment the door opened towards poetry as a path for him. The poem was And Tomorrow by Tupac. He states vividly “I was amazed he wrote poetry. He was always this larger-than-life rapper, and then I read these raw, vulnerable words he wrote at 19. It stayed with me.” In theatre, it was Misty by Arinzé Kene that changed things. “The rhythm, the wordplay, the boldness, it made me feel like I could do it too, like I could be unapologetically me.”

So, how does a new piece of writing begin for him? Sometimes it’s a memory, other times a lyric or beat. “For me personally its a combination of all three. Sometimes its something that has happened to me and I feel compelled to document it or elaborate on it because I cant be the only one feeling this or it could be from music, Other times it’s a feeling, like when my nan passed. That grief felt different. I had to write about it.” But always, the writing starts with a question: What do I have to say?

That emotional transparency carries across forms whether it’s writing for the page or the stage. “Performance is raw, It’s live, immediate, no edits. You feel everything in the moment. But writing for the page is just as powerful, it’s quieter, more intimate. You get to sit with the words and feel them differently, that vulnerability has helped others find strength. Being able to articulate feelings is a gift, and I don’t take that lightly.”

At the heart of all his work are themes he’s wrestled with his whole life: identity, belonging, healing. “Growing up, I was a light-skinned mixed-race kid who didn’t know where he fit in. I write about those things because I know I’m not the only one. They’re human questions. Where do I belong? Who am I? How do I move through pain?”

These aren’t just abstract ideas, they’re lived experiences, explored deeply during his time as Wales’ Children’s Laureate. “Working with kids across the country amplified my authenticity,” he says. “I wasn’t some well-spoken poet in a tweed jacket. I showed up in my tracksuits, with my Newport accent. And the kids saw that. Kids know real.” That realness filtered into Miracles, his children’s poetry collection, which is all about empowerment. “Those poems don’t exist without the amazing young people I met. I wanted them to know they are miracles—one in eight billion.”

Now, as a voice for young people and communities that often feel unseen, Connor’s role feels more vital than ever. “Honestly, I don’t know exactly what my role is, but if my work can help someone believe they matter, that they’re not alone, then I’m doing something right.”

His piece The Making of a Monster, both as a radio drama and theatre show is the clearest reflection of that. “It’s autobiographical. It’s about a chapter where things with my mum were rocky, I was getting in trouble, searching for answers about my absent Black father. Writing it helped me heal. Performing it brought it to life in a different way.”

When asked what matters more—how his words sound, or how they make people feel—he doesn’t hesitate. “It’s like Maya Angelou said: people will forget what you said, but they’ll never forget how you made them feel. That’s it. Empathy is everything.”

So what about ten years from now? Where does Connor see himself and his stories? “If I’m still writing and people are still reading, that’s enough,” he says. “But I hope my work’s still out there, children’s books being read at bedtime, poetry collections helping someone through a hard time, stories that help a confused mixed-race teenager feel seen.”

And as for being nominated for Writer of the Year? “It’s massive,” he says, smiling. “Not just for me now, but for 13-year-old Connor who didn’t know where he fit. I didn’t go to uni for writing. I didn’t take the ‘traditional’ route. So being nominated, being seen—it means everything.”