How Laura Horton Became A Breakthrough British Playwright On The Eve Of Her 40th Birthday

A few years ago, while cutting through a Plymouth underpass, I spotted a face from my past: my secondary school careers advisor. I’d spent 10 minutes with the woman in 2000, and she’d left a lasting impression. When asked which job I wanted to pursue, I’d shyly explained that my aspiration was to write. “Aim lower, Laura,” she replied. “You don’t seem cut out for that.”

I never forgot it. I was timid and quiet as a child, and although I had a handful of teachers who saw something in me, it often felt like I was dismissed or underestimated by others – both as a student and a graduate. After university, I found work as an usher, then a publicist, in the same theatre near where I grew up. When I announced I was moving to London for a press job at The National in my twenties, my boss in Plymouth was surprised: “I didn’t realise you were ambitious, Laura.” I suspect it was meant as a compliment, but it didn’t feel like one. Why didn’t I seem like I had big dreams for myself?

Despite convincing myself that I needed to “make it” by the age of 30 to have any chance of artistic success, in the end, I spent years and years in PR, supporting other creatives in telling their stories. I loved the job, but in my heart, I knew I should be exploring my own creativity too, except I was so terrified of failure that I didn’t even want to try. It wasn’t until I emerged from an incredibly toxic relationship and a dear friend died in quick succession that I realised, deep in my bones, that I shouldn’t be wasting my life, that I needed to start being the protagonist of my own story. It was time to find some gumption.

I enrolled in a 10-week playwriting course at Morley College, where I penned my first short monologue, reading it out in front of a small group of fellow anxious writers. I’d never invested in myself in that way before, and it felt good. From there, I began writing short plays and sending them out to competitions. It took at least a year before I started to get positive responses, but I didn’t stop. When I learnt that the reason playwright is spelled wright, not write, is because you’re crafting something in the same way that a wheelwright does, I took it as permission to revel in my mistakes as I honed my craft.

By 2018, I’d decided to move back to Plymouth from London, which everyone told me would be the end of my career, but I felt like I needed a fresh start. Back at home, without any sort of security blanket (and zero freelance work thanks to the pandemic), I took part in Drunk Plays, penning a weird little piece about pasties, and gave an online reading over Zoom, via The Space Theatre, who offered me my first commission.

Their belief in me was transformative. I applied for, and got, the role of Plymouth Laureate of Words in 2021, which meant I could move to a little flat by the sea. By 2023, I had brought my full-length monologue, Breathless, to The Soho Theatre in London’s West End and 59E59 off-Broadway in New York. I was strolling through the city one day when my phone started buzzing like mad; we had been chosen as a New York Times Critic’s Pick and were on the front page of the Culture section.

Since then, I’ve got an agent, am on attachment with The National and have started developing a new play through The Criterion New Writing Course. It’s by no means easy – I dream of a project that isn’t a self-starter, one I don’t have to fundraise, produce and market as well as write – nor is it lucrative, but it’s worth it. I’m doing what I’ve fantasised about doing since the age of five, when I would charge my family 50p a ticket to attend my am-dram theatre productions in our attic.

When I turned 40 last year, I did wonder whether I should be disappointed in myself for waiting so long to pursue all of this, but I realised that I had needed my twenties and thirties to settle into myself. My mum is taking her own play, In The Lady Garden, to The Edinburgh Fringe this year for the first time at 71 years old, and it feels exhilarating to be sharing this experience with her. Why is there so much pressure to achieve certain things by certain ages? Why do we hold ourselves back out of fear of judgement?

The futility of worrying about what other people think was brought home to me again recently when I was asked to speak at an event. I was introduced thoughtfully; the organiser had researched my work to date, its themes and influences. Then, as I studied the audience, I spotted my careers advisor. She didn’t recognise me, but there was no mistaking her. For a moment, I thought about saying something, but decided against it. She’s retired now, and presumably not discouraging children anymore. Instead, I just smiled, poured a glass of wine – and made some mental notes about the encounter for my next play.