Here's what I think:
There's a certain joy in not doing this face-to-face. For one, I don't have to leave my apartment and I have the quiet company of my goldfish and my goldfish alone. (I don't like people, which is why I love books. You can understand that.) For another, I don't have to see your presumably crestfallen and injured attitude when I tear apart the prose you cried and bled and sweated over for weary nights on end. But really the best parts are those uninterrupted hours alone with your manuscript and the shred of you that lies inside. It's a small shred, but an important one. It's the one that tells me who you are and what you think and how you feel and I never have to look at you and be disappointed when the real thing doesn't come up to scratch. As I sit there, un-tensing and re-tensing and tense-shifting and shift-entering (and damn it, wishing English were like German so I could get rid of those clunky space-wasting n-dashes--oh, damn there they are again) I feel like I'm getting to know you. And even when your turns of phrase are about as subtle as a wheel of lovingly agéd cheese, or your heroine so monotonously perfect I consider ripping the number keys off my keyboard to vent, or I fill an entire margin with clusters of angry and demanding red balloons because really, darlin', you need them--there's a certain sense of kinship there, with words against words, and it's far more satisfying.
Here's what I type:
I've attached your edited copy for review.
And I click 'send'.