Identifying the Inner Critic: Writing Past Your Bluebeard
Recognizing the Voice That Stifles Creativity and Moving Beyond It
Let’s begin here: You’re standing at a locked door. The key is in your hand. You’ve been told not to open it, not to look inside. But something in you—it could be instinct, it could be defiance—knows you have to. So you turn the key. You push the door open.
And there it is. The voice. The one that tells you your writing isn’t good enough. That no one will care. That you should stop before you embarrass yourself. It’s been waiting for you. It always is.
Bluebeard. The inner predator. The part of you that silences your wild, untamed creative voice before it can even take shape.
We all have one. The trick is recognizing it before it locks you out of your own work.
The Bluebeard Within
There are many variations on the story of Bluebeard—a cunning predator who lures women in, gives them a home, and then punishes them for their curiosity. He tells them they can have everything except for one thing: the key to the locked door. The moment they dare to look inside, he seeks to destroy them.
This is what the inner critic does. It convinces us that our creativity is allowed—so long as we follow the rules, so long as we don’t question, so long as we don’t push too far. The moment we reach for something raw, something wild, something true, it turns on us.
It says: You can’t write that. You don’t know what you’re doing. You’ll never be as good as [insert name here].
And if we listen, if we hesitate, if we believe it—Bluebeard wins.
But here’s the thing: Bluebeard is a liar.
Writing Past the Inner Critic
You can’t reason with your inner predator. You can’t argue with it or convince it to let you create. You have to write past it.
Here’s your invitation:
Recognize the Voice – The inner critic disguises itself well. Sometimes it sounds like self-discipline, like realism, like humility. Notice when that voice creeps in. Name it for what it is.
Challenge the Lies – If the voice says, “This isn’t good enough,” ask yourself: Not good enough for whom? If it says, “You’ll never finish this,” respond: Watch me.
Write Through It – Bluebeard thrives on hesitation. The longer you pause, the stronger he gets. The best way to defeat him? Write. Keep writing. Even if it feels awful. Even if the words aren’t right. Even if you doubt every sentence. Write anyway.
Play Invitation
Set a timer for 15 minutes. Start with this line:
"The door was locked, but I turned the key anyway."
Write whatever comes next. Let the story unfold. Let the voice of the inner critic show up if it wants to—but don’t let it stop you.
If the critic gets loud, write its words down, then cross them out. Keep going.
See what happens when you refuse to listen.
When the timer stops, read what you wrote. Somewhere in those words, past the hesitation, past the fear, is your wild, unbroken voice.
Trusting Your Wild Voice
The inner critic doesn’t just want to silence you—it wants to make you doubt your own instincts. It wants you to second-guess every sentence, every story, every idea before it even has a chance to breathe.
Don’t give it that power.
Trust the part of you that knows how to create without permission. Trust the voice that doesn’t hesitate, the one that knows exactly what your story needs. That voice existed before Bluebeard ever whispered in your ear. And it will outlast him.
The Reader’s Role
Your inner critic might try to convince you that no one wants your story. That it’s already been told. That it doesn’t matter.
But your readers? They are waiting. They need the story only you can tell, in the way only you can tell it.
And when you write past your inner critic, when you break through the locked door, you don’t just free yourself. You free them too.
Your Turn
The key is in your hand. The door is in front of you.
What happens when you open it?
What does Bluebeard’s voice sound like when it tries to stop you?
And what will you write when you decide not to listen?
Turn the key. Step inside. Write.
About Me
I’m Rena—a writer, educator, and relentless explorer of stories. Originally from Southern California, I’ve spent the past 20 years making my home in Costa Rica, where I live with my husband, two children, and a pair of Rhodesian Ridgebacks who refuse to acknowledge their size.
My writing has appeared in places like Brevity Magazine, South Florida Poetry Journal, Five on the Fifth, New Flash Fiction Review, Headland Literary Journal, and more. Along the way, I’ve collected more rejection letters than I care to count—a badge of honor for any writer chasing the next story.
I’m also the Founder and Director of an International K–12 school in Costa Rica, a space where my love for learning and writing collide in exciting ways. At my core, I believe in the power of ideas, in listening for what’s unsaid, and in finding beauty in the unexpected. Stories connect us—and together, I believe, we’re better.
Come write, wonder, and explore with me.
Thanks for this reminder, Rena. I wrote about my "editor" a couple years ago, here's what mine looks like:
Let me tell you about my editor. He (oh yea, it’s a he) is small and sinewy and he cultivates his bitterness like a master gardener nurses her most temperamental seedlings. He is almost naked, with nothing but a torn, filthy loin cloth hanging from his hips, his body in a permanent squat. An evil caricature of Gandhi. He has never known connection, but rather an unrelenting, desolate isolation. And his most precious skill, his special talent, his most prized super power, is the ability to cut me down. All the way down. To remind me with the conviction of a zealot that I am no better. That I cannot escape, as much as I might delude myself otherwise, from the same abysmal, eternally desolate life. He’s very effective. Yea, he’s damn good at his job. I try to fire him periodically. He just laughs. He’s here now, actually. Squatting on his haunches, smelling of sweat and stale cigarettes, perched on my right shoulder. Looking down at my scribbling. Smirking. His most effective weapon is deceptively non-threatening. “Who’s going to read this awkward amateurish shit?” That’s it. I have been primed enough by other forces. He doesn’t have to work very hard to shut me up.
There's more, but that's the meaty bit. It's interesting to notice that as I have increased my writing practice over the last year, the force of this ugly little guy has waned, or at least gotten easier to ignore. Wouldn't it be fun to write a collaborative story about a bunch of these internal creatures feeling banished?